POEMS 

CHARLES  WELLS  RUSSELL 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


CHARLES  WELLS  RUSSELL 


POEMS 


BY 


CHARLES  WELLS  RUSSELL 


THE  NEALE  PUBLISHING  COMPANY 

440     FOURTH     AVENUE,     NEW     YORK 
M  C  M  X  X  I 


Copyright, 1909, 1911,  1913,  by 
CHARLES  WELLS  RUSSELL 

Copyright,  1921,  by 
THE  NEALE  PUBLISHING  COMPANY 


:£?<"• 

3S3 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

INTRODUCTION 9 

LELIA  (DEDICATION) 11 

REST 12 

SPRING 12 

HOME 13 

ABSENCE 14 

NOON 14 

THE  WILD  ROSE 15 

SLEEP 15 

THE  ARBOR 16 

LOVE 17 

WEALTH 18 

UNTRUE 19 

SUMMER 19 

DREAMS 21 

NIGHT 22 

RUTH 22 

ROSES 23 

A  DRYAD 24 

FORGOTTEN 24 

AUTUMN 25 

FRIENDSHIP 26 

LUCY 26 

SONG  ("To  BLESS— NOT  GAIN") 27 

MEMORIES 28 

DOROTEA 28 

HOLDING  THE  REINS 30 

DRIFTWOOD 31 

PEACE 31 

SHADOWINGS 32 

5 


FAOB 

THE  FEATHER 34 

ALONE 36 

GOSSIP 37 

JEPTHA'S  DAUGHTER 39 

COMFORT 39 

SERE 40 

THE  MISEB 41 

THINE  ANGELUS 42 

SUNSET 43 

To  THEE 43 

SONG  (As  WITH  UPRAISED  WINGS) 44 

AFTER 44 

COME 45 

EVENSONG 46 

IRANIAN 46 

THE  SECRET  PLACE 47 

MINOR  CHORDS 48 

AUTUMN  LEAVES 49 

SCENERY .  49 

TELL  ME 50 

EASTEB 51 

ASPHODELS 52 

BACK  FROM  THE  DESERT 53 

HAST  THOU  FORGOTTEN? 53 

ALSO     .' 55 

SHADOWS ' 56 

THE  DELL 57 

IRANIAN  REST 58 

NIGHT  IN  GULISTAN 62 

FOLLOWING 62 

SONG  (COME  WITH  ROSES) 63 

LADY 63 

HANDS 65 

ECCE 65 

SERENE 66 

LAZZARONE 66 

CYPRESS 68 

THE  TRYST  OF  ALKAIOS 69 

NIGHT  IN  THE  DESERT 71 

6 


PAGE 

WANDERING 71 

THE  DREAM  OF  RUTH ^ .    .  72 

FOREVER 75 

FOLLY 76 

TWILIGHT 77 

FAREWELL 78 

INGRATITUDE 79 

THE  CRADLE  LAND 79 

BIRDS 80 

HANDS  INVISIBLE 80 

STILL  FAITHFUL 81 

NOTHING 81 

ELIZABETH 82 

SWALLOWS 83 

GENTUCCA 84 

GLEANING 85 

UNWEEDED 86 

JUNE 86 

SEARCH 87 

MARIENGARN 88 

WORDS 89 

SONG  (CHILDHOOD'S  ROYAL  IDLENESS)      ....  90 

ROCKS 90 

CHALICES 92 

WATCHMAN 93 

SPIRITS 93 

EGYPTIAN 94 

IRENE 95 

THERE 98 

TEARS 100 

PERSIAN  CHORDS 101 

CHIL-CHIL-HA! 102 

NOCTURNE 102 

THE  ROSE  LAMENT 104 

WHEREFORE? 105 

THE  RUSSIAN  WEDDING  FEAST 105 

INES 106 

CHRISTINA 107 

EASE 108 

7 


HOLINESS 108 

RlTRATTO-D'lNCOQNITO 109 

LA  PINETA 109 

DOGWOOD      110 

MOTHER 110 

SONG  (PLEASURE  IN  THE  RISING  BREAKETH)     .    .  Ill 

THE  STARRY  QUEST Ill 

NEAR 144 

IN  THE  GARDEN 145 

APRIL 145 

THE  RETURN 146 

THE  GUITAR 147 

BREAD 148 

SONG  (AMONG  THE  LILIES  OF  AN  EASTER  MORN)  149 

PRAYER 149 

SONG  (WHEN  THE  GRACE  OF  SEEDING  GRASS)  .     .  150 

THE  BENCH 150 

SERENADE 151 

THOU  KNOWEST  THE  PLACE 152 

SONG  (COME  WITH  ME,  SWEET) 153 

THE  GOLDEN  HOUR 154 

L'ADULTERA 156 

FRAGMENTS,  I  TO  XIII 176-183 


INTRODUCTION 

Whatever  tends  to  contribute  to  the  public 's  fur 
ther  acquaintance  with  the  thoughts  and  impulses 
of  a  prominent  character  is  always  of  value;  and 
when  the  character  himself  offers  a  contribution  so 
intimate  as  is  this  volume  of  poems,  then  is  that 
value  significantly  augmented.  Therefore,  this  col 
lection  of  the  poetry, — the  word  is  here  used  in  its 
noblest  sense, — of  Charles  "Wells  Russell,  now  for 
the  first  time  published,  makes  a  revealing  and  im 
portant  addition  to  the  world 's  knowledge  of  a  man 
whose  juridical  achievements  and  diplomatic,  poli 
tical,  and  scholarly  activities  are  too  conspicuous 
to  need  emphasis  here.  That  this  expression  of 
the  Publishers  is  more  than  a  mere  impression  is 
ably  sustained  by  the  following  extract  from  a  let 
ter  written  by  Dr.  Henry  Van  Dyke,  to  whom  some 
of  the  verses  of  Dr.  Russell, — at  the  time  (1914) 
United  States  Minister  to  Persia, — had  been  pre 
sented  by  another  than  their  author : 

You  knew  beforehand  how  I  would  enjoy  such 
verses  as  these.  They  have  a  double  interest  when 
I  remember  the  active  and  useful  public  life  of  the 
man  who  wrote  them,  and  the  good  work  he  has 
done  for  our  country  in  fighting  against  all  sorts 


of  abuses,  and  in  promoting  the  real  progress  of 
America.  I  should  like  him  to  know  how  much  I 
admire  this  side  of  his  activity,  and  how  much 
pleasure  I  have  found  in  his  poetry. 

It  is  fortunate  for  the  world  that  reads  that  the 
application  of  Dr.  Russell's  knowledge  to  useful 
ends  still  granted  him  freedom  for  the  indulgence 
of  his  artistic  tastes  and  failed  of  power  to  choke 
the  poetic  expression  of  an  imagination  that  claims 
as  its  ardent  ally  apparently  limitless  erudition ;  the 
Doctor's  already  adequate  endowment  having  been 
further  enriched  by  extensive  travel.  Indeed,  this 
familiarity  with  foreign  climes  probably  has  much 
to  do  with  the  investing  of  his  work  with  the  wiz 
ardry  known  as  "atmosphere,"  which  is  so  keenly- 
sensed  when  he  seems  to  be  singing  in  the  rose-rich 
land  of  Iran,  or  beneath  the  moonlit  skies  of  Italy, 
his  exquisite  songs, — songs  eloquent  with  tender 
ness  and  pathos  and  peace  and  hope ;  songs  lighted 
by  vagrant  smiles  and  rainbow-glinting  tears,  with 
here  and  there  the  poignant  note  of  a  sob  of  sorrow, 
or  a  groan  for  grace.  Which,  after  all,  gives  but  a 
hint  of  the  book's  enchantment. 

Here  they  live,  these  skillfully-woven  fabrics  of 
fancy  and  feeling  of  the  poet,  Dr.  Russell,  to  whom 
has  been  graciously  granted  by  Providence  one  of 
its  greatest  gifts:  the  pleasure  of  increasing  the 
emotional,  intellectual,  and  artistic  pleasure  of  the 
ever-avid  world  of  letters. 

THE  PUBLISHERS. 
10 


POEMS 

BY  CHARLES  WELLS  RUSSELL 


LELIA. 

Dedication 

HER  busy  hand,  in  homely  ways, 

All  tireless,  toils  its  daily  share, 
Nor  waits  for  either  blame  or  praise, 

And  silent  is  her  daily  prayer. 
No  tragic  art  she  knows  to  prove 

How  deep,  how  pure  may  be  devotion. 
Unuttered  every  thought  of  love, 

She  dares  not  trust  with  her  emotion 
A  tongue  unskilled  to  show  a  part 
Of  that  which  overflows  the  heart. 
When  nights  and  days,  when  friends  seemed 
fewest, 

She  stood  beside  a  bed  of  pain 
Explaining  that  she  was  the  truest, 
And  in  these  words  did  this  explain 
(Words  eloquent  as  words  can  be)  : 
"Here,  take  and  drink  this  cup  of  tea." 


11 


REST 

COME  with  me  to  the  mountain  peaks 
0  'er  paths  that  neither  start  nor  end 

Yet  lead  past  twinkling  forest  flowers 
To  that  still  world  where  beauty  seeks 
The  peace  she  cannot  find  in  ours. 
Ah,  dearest,  come!  and  with  me  spend 
Time  reckoned  not  by  loss  of  hours. 

The  unremembering  air  shall  play 
Upon  his  harp  of  many  strings 

Soft  harmonies  forever  new, — 
For  thee  their  secret  charms  display 

Wild  morning-glories  drenched  in  dew, 
And  drafts  as  cool  shall  yield  the  springs 
As  maid  or  maBnad  ever  drew. 


SPRING 

WHERE  the  wood  and  meadow  met 
The  bluet  and  the  violet, 
Purer  than  a  saint's  regret, 
Shook  their  fair  heads  from  the  wet. 

"Dainty  snowdrop  blue,"  said  I, 
' '  Thou  art  fair,  but  far  too  shy, — 
Thou  and  thy  sweet  cousin  lie 
Hid,  like  truants  from  the  sky. ' ' 

Then  I  asked :  ' '  Thou  little  maid, 
Wherefore  of  a  kiss  afraid?" 
12 


Answering  when  she  could,  she  said ; 
"To  thy  soul  that  sin  was  laid." 

After  all  unfeigned  surprise, 
Questions  low,  with  no  replies, 
Came  a  new  light  in  her  eyes, — 
Came  a  shower  of  tears  and  sighs. 


HOME 

I'VE  builded  thee  a  mansion  gay 

Upon  a  secret  height, 
Where  days  as  fleet  as  hours  in  May 

Descend  on  waves  of  light 
From  Heaven,  no  longer  far  away. 

Anear  thee  shall  alight 
A  peace  that  there  shall  brood  and  stay 

Through  all  the  day  and  night. 

The  eagles  whirl  about  their  young 

A  mile  or  more  below, 
And  in  and  out,  the  clouds  among, 

The  lightnings  come  and  go, 
And  farther  down,  like  silken  thong, 

The  flashing  rivers  flow. 

There  shalt  thou  stroke  the  fawn,  or  feel 
The  graceful  panther  press 

Against  thy  knee  his  thews  of  steel, 
Awhine  for  thy  caress, 

And  never  sight  nor  sound  reveal 
The  other  world's  distress. 
13 


ABSENCE 

AH,  I  wonder  if  thou  knowest 
How  my  love  is  love  indeed, 

Or  the  comfort  thou  bestowest 
In  my  loneliness  and  need, — 

Through  the  day  where  'er  thou  goest 
That  my  thought  are  bees  that  feed ! 

Ah,  and  when  the  dusky  even 
Steals  the  day  and  night  between 

Dost  thou  know  their  din  in  heaven, — 
Dost  thou  know  their  flying  keen 

By  mad  gladness  made  uneven, — 
Are  they  heard,  or  felt,  or  seen  ? 

-Then  they  linger  to  behold  thee 
From  the  lightning  of  their  flight; 

Then  they  weave  around  to  fold  thee 
In  the  charmed  peace  of  night. 

Have  they  whispered  thee  and  told  thee 
"What  is  winging  their  delight? 


NOON 

THE  poet  lay  beneath  the  trees 
Translating  what  an  amorous  breeze 
In  Sanskrit,  Greek,  or  Japanese 
Did  whisper  his  rapt  ear  to  please ; 
And  so  he  labored  (carpeted 
Upon  a  rug  of  gold  and  green 
Inwove  with  thread  of  blue  and  red, — 
14 


An  Arab  plan,  with  silken  sheen) 
Till  half  the  golden  hours  were  sped ; 
Till  all  the  little  tribes  that  dwell 
Where  only  he  and  robbers  hide 
Lay  stricken  by  the  hot  noon-tide 
And  all  the  breezes  speechless  fell 
And  not  a  cow  did  ring  her  bell : — 
Naught  moves,  save  one  forsaken  cloud, 
The  reason  being  nothing  can; 
And  all  is  silent,  even  the  loud 
Siesta  of  the  great  god  Pan. 

THE  WILD  ROSE 

WHEN  I  was  lost  within  a  forest,  child, 
There  came  the  lone  song  of  a  brooklet  wild, 
Then,  turning  sharply  round  where  with  a  vine 
A  dance  of  water-gleams  did  intertwine, 
A  white  rose,  trembling  in  the  brooklet's  spray, 

Bowed  at  me  with  an  unaffected  grace. 

I  could  but  pause,  and  lo,  I  soon  did  trace 
Where  near  the  rose  my  long-lost  pathway  lay ! 
So  fair  that  flower  it  scarce  were  seen,  sweet  maid, 
If  plucked  and  on  your  own  fair  bosom  laid; 
But  far  less  dark  the  wild  than  that  which  threw 
Its  shadows  round  me  when  I  met  with  you. 

SLEEP 

SHE  loved  me  only,  called  me  a  sweet  name, 
But  ah,  she  seemed  a  visitor  that  came 
And  not  a  child  of  day! 
15 


And  when  she  slept,  she  never  turned,  nor 

sighed, 

But  my  poor  heart  beat  fast,  lest  ill  betide, 
Or  her  kindred  take  her  away. 

I  watched  her  sleep,  and  envied  the  cool  air 
That  could  so  lightly  steal  to  lift  her  hair 

And  kiss  the  rare,  pale  maid. 
How  could  I  leave,  when  she  might  dream  of 

woe, 
With  none  to  whisper :  "  I  am  here,  and  so 

Sleep  on, — be  not  afraid!" 

I  sat  and  watched,  and  loved  each  lingering 

hour 
That  gave  her  rest ! — and  ah,  I  had  the  power 

Out  of  my  love  and  will 
To  keep  her  human  and  prolong  her  stay ! 
Like  Heaven  was  the  night ;  and  in  the  day 

I  had  her  with  me  still ! 


THE  ARBOR 

Now  thou  art  gone,  how  fair  the  night ! 
How  sweet  the  breezes  and  how  bright 
The  flowers !    Like  a  radiant  dream 
The  blooms  that  fleck  the  arbor  seem. 
But  all  night  long  they  pine  and  pray 
And  wait  and  listen, — 1  and  they, 
Hearing  the  petulant  whippoorwill, 
Which  only  maketh  the  night  more  still 
And  the  aching  void  more  plain, — 
16 


Till  I  press  the  flowers  to  my  cheek  and  the 

pain 

Pierces  the  numbness  of  heart  and  brain, 
Shakes   me    from   madness, — from    dreaming 

again 

That  I  have  not  lost  thee ! — that  never  yet 
I  knew  such  a  being  as  I  regret, — 
Till  I  know  all  real  is  my  despair ! 
Then  into  the  glow  of  the  luminous  air, 
As  into  a  song  its  sigh  or  prayer, 
A  shadow  passes,  and  over  all 
The  benediction  of  sleep  doth  fall. 


LOVE 

SHE  fed  her  spirit  from  the  tree 

Whose  fruit  o'erhangs  the  springs  of  light, 
Seeing  the  far  dawns  yet  to  be 

Aglimmer  on  the  mountain  height, 
And  dreaming  as  a  summer  sea 

Dreams,  folded  in  the  arms  of  night. 
Ah,  lost  dove  from  some  bluer  day ! 

Ah,  light  waif  from  a  purer  sky ! 
Ah,  dear  hours  that  forever  stay 

Anear  me  and  on  slumber  lie, 
Like  roses  on  the  breast  of  May ! 

She  heard  a  far-off  people  cry 
In  anguish, — forth  with  no  delay 

She  drove  me,  while  she  wept  good-bye. 


17 


WEALTH 

AM  I,  then,  poorer  than  these  landlords  all 
Who  boast  of  splendid  wealth  in  lands  and  gold  ? 

They  are  but  vassals  mine  and  in  my  thrall: 
What  theirs  the  caitiffs  claim,  for  me  they  hold. 

Do  I  not  seek  my  pleasure  'mid  "their"  trees, 
These  many  miles  around,  and  by  each  spring, 

While  they  are  toiling,  take  my  lordly  ease? 
For  me  they  toil ;  for  me  around  they  fling 

Those  velvet  carpets  greener  than  all  green; 

Mine  is  the  bird  which,  redder  than  all  red, 
Bursts  on  me  like  a  sudden  flame  between 

White  laurel  buds  and  boughs  that  lean  o'erhead. 

Have  I  not  chosen  me  upon  yon  hill 

A  mansion  fairer  than  are  made  with  hands, — 

A  home  ancestral, — stately, — what  you  will, 
Where  at  each  side  a  towering  poplar  stands  ? 

What  priceless  pictures  hang  upon  the  walls ! 

Such  works  the  antique  masters  painted  not 
Who  spared  no  pains  on  paler  "cardinals," 

And  saints  that  died  for  virtues  now  forgot. 

For  me  they  whet  the  scythe, — ah,  yes,  for  me ! — 
To  spread  abroad  the  scent  of  new-mown  hay ; 

For  me  they  sowed  yon  grain  which,  like  a  sea, 
Rolls  laughing  round  the  trembling  feet  of  May. 


18 


UNTRUE 

THEY  told  me  thou  art  light  and  gay 
And  changeful  as  the  clouds  of  May. 
I  see  thee  'mid  a  giddy  throng 
"Whirled  in  merry  dance  along, — 
Thy  soul, — that  had  been — not  more  sweet 
Than  thy  frail  form  and  twinkling  feet ; 
Then,  lo,  to  seek  the  glimmering  shade 
By  poplars  in  the  moonlight  made, 
Touching  the  lush  grass  of  the  lawn 
Lightlier  than  a  startled  fawn, 
Concealed  within  the  portico 
I  watch  thee, — with  another, — go, 
Flushed  and  whispering  soft  and  low. 
Trembling,  I  note  the  roses  fair, — 
My  roses ! — glowing  in  thy  hair, — 
And  then,  just  then,  two  tender  eyes, — 
The  stars  of  a  lost  paradise, — 
Are  turned  on  me  in  sad  surprise. 


SUMMER 

Now  thou  art  gone,  the  sweetest  bird  of  all 

For  thee  is  lone  and  hath  no  rest  at  all, 

But  sits  and  sings,  Beloved,  the  whole  night 

long 

Through  many  changes  one  unending  song 
Of  love,  of  longing  and  of  past  delight, 
Filling,  as  thou  did  'st  fill,  the  hollow  night 
0  'erf ull  with  music, — in  his  soul 's  distress 
Recalling  scenes  I  can  but  partly  guess. 
19 


But  now  he  sings  of  some  lone  rose  that  stood 
Fairest  in  the  wild  gardens  of  the  wood, 
And  now  beholds  'neath  softer  skies  than  these, 
Across  the  reaches  of  the  southern  seas, 
A  languid  houri  wakened  from  her  dreams, 
Where  almost  true  man 's  sweetest  vision  seems, 
And  from  the  heart  the  fetters  melt  and  fall, — 
Where  life  is  love,  and  love  is  all  in  all ! 

He  sings  of  fear  and  grief  and  vain  regret, 

Of  lights  that  waned  and  glooms  that  linger 

yet, 

Of  her  whose  touch  could  cool  a  fevered  brain, 
Or  turn  to  melody  the  cries  of  pain, — 
Of  one,  love-mad,  that  to  the  midnight  moon 
Was  ever  muttering  sweet  thoughts  out  of 

tune; 

Of  rankly  odorous  cedars  and  the  breath 
Of  flowers  o'erblown  and  sickening  to  their 

death. 

And  now  he  follows  summer  (that  hath  flown; 
Slowly  through  golden  dreams  to  us  unknown, 
Or  lingers  where  the  secret  dove  repines 
Above  the  writhing  torsos  of  the  vines 
Or  rests  within  the  tops  of  murmuring  pines. 
He  tells  how,  wandering,  still  he  longs  for 

home; 

And  then  I  wait,  and  on  the  listening  air 
A  passionate  silence  rises,  like  a  prayer. 

But  now  aloud  the  wood  and  garden  ring, 
For  he  is  seized  with  tumult,  and  his  soul 
Exults  with  music  wild  beyond  control ! 
20 


I  hear, — oh,  hear! — through  night's  resound 
ing  halls 

'Tis  thee  he  calls,  Beloved,  on  thee  he  calls, — 

That  thou  may'st  come,  Beloved,  may'st  come 
again 

And  when  thou  comest,  evermore  remain ! 


DREAMS 

WHY  should  I  die,  if  I  such  dreams  can  dream  ? 
After  the  hours  when  all  things  shadows  seem 

And  love  is  only  pain 
There  come  the  sweet  caresses  of  pale  night 
When  she  unveils  her  loveliness  to  sight 

And  woos  to  dreams  again. 

'Twas  but  a  dream, — and  yet  it  is  not  gone ! 
I  feel  its  presence  yet ;  ah,  till  the  dawn, — 

Perhaps  the  livelong  day, — 
My  heart  may  still  be  singing  with  delight, — 
Still,  in  the  sky  and  on  the  earth,  a  light 
Shine,  and  not  pass  away ! 

What  was  the  dream  ? — I  only  partly  know ; 

I  knew  the  voice  that  whispered  sweet  and  low ; 

The  hand  that — almost ! — I  pressed ; 
After  a  strange  mistake,  and  grief  in  vain, 
Almost  it  was  as  it  had  been  again. 
Some  time  I'll  dream  the  rest! 


21 


NIGHT 

'NAY,  drive  me  not  away  again! 
For  thee  I  live,  or  live  in  vain ! 
Must  I,  then,  fleeing  slander 's  tongue, 
Forsake  thee,  lest  it  do  me  wrong? 
A  higher  dream  my  young  heart  seeks, 
Ahungered  for  the  mountain  peaks, — 
Ah,  let  me  by  thy  side  remain ! 

'  I  '11  ask  for  nothing  in  return, — 
Oh,  do  but  let  me  stay,  and  learn 
To  lift  thy  faint  head  from  the  ground 
And  hold  thee  till  a  path  be  found 
Through  dark  vales  to  some  twilight  land 
Where  cool  springs  run  o'er  purple  sand, 
And  pale  in  heaven  the  sweet  stars  burn ! 

'Ah,  bitter  is  thy  need!"    The  maid, 
So  speaking,  laid  her  hand  on  mine 
And  gently  as  a  spirit  freed, 
Or  from  its  nest  a  bird  will  lead, 
To  where  the  needles  of  the  pine 
Lie  thickest,  led  me,  unafraid. 


RUTH 

BEERSHEBA'S  road  that  led  from  Dan, 
Or  Boaz '  field  when  Ruth  was  seen, 

Not  lovelier  than  the  path  which  ran 

Where  Ruth, — immortal, — wept  between 

The  hill-top  pasture  and  the  wood ! 
22 


There,  like  a  fallen  sumac  gleaming, 
The  cardinal  wove  his  thread  of  flame, 

And  eyes  were  with  a  promise  beaming 

Naomi  would  have  understood, 

And  like  a  shower  the  tear-drops  came. 

Ah,  me ! — that  hers,  the  tenderest, 
The  clearest,  sweetest  life  of  all, 

Should  soonest  lose  its  little  best, — 
'Ere  yet  might  wholly  fade  and  fall 

The  lilies  of  an  Eastern  morn 

(As  some  frail  vine  which  hath  caressed 

A  stricken  tree,  apart  is  torn 

By  idle  winds),  should  withering  lie 

Or,  panting  for  the  light,  should  die ! 


ROSES 

STILL  as  fair  the  flower  we  planted 
Near  these  walls  by  dead  hopes  haunted 
O'er  its  trellis,  where  we  spaded 
Climbs,  by  strangers'  fingers  aided. 
Long  and  pendulous,  like  a  vine, 
It  hangs  in  the  dusk  its  roses  fine. 
And  whenever  too  starless  my  night  appears 
And  the  pain  of  longing  too  keen  for  tears, 
I  enter  this  garden,  by  all  unseen, 
And  linger  where  thou  and  thy  care  have  been. 
The  trellis,  then,  like  an  altar  stands, 
And  I  bow  before  it  with  clasped  hands: 
And  I  know,  wherever  thou  kneel  in  prayer, 
One  name,  unforgotten,  is  murmured  there. 
23 


A  DRYAD 

AH,  who  so  fair  a  soul  would  stain 
With  guilty  sense  of  others'  pain? 
(I  marked  not  then,  in  Druid  aisles, 

These  painted  windows  rich  in  story, — 
Those  oriels  filling  dim  defiles 

With  the  brief  wealth  of  evening's  glory ,- 
I  only  saw  the  light  that  glowed 

Around  thee  and,  upon  thy  hair, 
The  ruddy  wine  the  sun  bestowed 
Until  its  waves  were  overflowed, — 

And  thou, — with  radiance  everywhere, 
And  drank  the  effluence  more  divine 
From  thy  calm  eyes  and  wholly  thine;) 
For  who  can  mend  the  ruined  vase 

The  morning-glory  once  lets  fall, 
Or  who  within  the  nest  replace 

Its  winged  loss,  or  back  may  call 
The  perfume  which  the  rose  that  dies 
Trails  thro'  the  portals  of  the  skies, 

Or  love's  first  sigh,  more  fair  than  all? 


FORGOTTEN 

I  SEEK  for  peace  beneath  the  murmuring  leaves 
Where  deepest  lie  and  rot  in  mould  their  kin, 

And  in  the  heavens  where  busy  midnight  weaves 
Her  charms  the  palpitating  dome  within 

Until  it  gleams  and  murmurs  like  a  shell, 
And  on  the  lapping  waves  of  blue  that  bear 
24 


Sometimes  to  pleasant  lands,  where  ever  dwell 
The  radiant  dreams  that  flee  from  ours.    There 
The  dead  day  riseth  as  a  night  more  fair: 

And  then  I  seek  it  'mid  the  cries  of  pain 
Where  fellow-travelers  bleed  and  faint  and  fall, 

For  thou  would 'st  go — and  I  be  left — again — 
A  parting  far  more  bitter  yet  than  all — 

If  from  the  iron  in  my  soul  I  wrought 

No  ribs  for  frailer  barks  with  sorrow  fraught. 
And  so  I  seek  what  on  before  me  flies, 
And  sometimes,  when  I  sleep,  it  softly  lies 

Upon  me  like  a  mantle  dearly  bought. 


AUTUMN 

Is  autumn  come  or  summer  still  advancing? 

Beside  the  path  the  scarlet  sumac  falls; 
Like  larger  swallows,  through  the  twilight  glancing, 

The  night-birds  throng;  no  more  the  partridge 

calls ; 
The  hillside  rain  ( pale  warriors  homeward  trooping 

When  war  is  over)  blurs  the  whitened  trees ; 
Beside  the  hopeless  bud,  resigned  is  drooping 

The  finished  flower,  which  the  faithful  breeze 
Caresses  ever  with  a  touch  more  tender. 

Now  is  there  pause,  for  now  at  length  is  won 
From  nest  and  field  the  harvest,  fat  or  slender. 

Now  can  we  bear  of  those  whose  race  is  run 
To  think,  at  least,  they  rest,  if  not  again 

To  greet  us  ever.    Now  the  meek  September 
Exerts  herself  with  golden  stress,  in  vain, 

Puffing  her  cheeks  at  summer 's  dying  ember. 
25 


Now  in  the  trees  there  sounds  a  minor  tone 

For  him  whose  hopes  in  life,   not  death,   are 
thwarted, 

Who  cannot  feel  that  only  he  is  lone. 

But  let  us  leave  this  to  the  broken  hearted, 

And  look  how  that  which  careth  for  us  all 

Is  busy  where  the  bees  and  apples  fall. 


FRIENDSHIP 

THE  gamut  of  the  less  and  larger  hills 

Which   swells  beneath   the  touch   of   autumn's 

fingers, 
From  the  torn  bosom  drives  its  flock  of  ills ; 

And  where  the  great  notes  end  there  lifts  and 

lingers 
A  prophecy  or  promise,  which  a  mind 

That  is  not  like  the  owl  at  midday  flying 
By  hate  pursued,  but  loves  all  human  kind, 

In  part  may  read.    And  from  the  oaks  replying, 
A  voice  mysterious  doth  softly  tell 
One  secret  of  the  many:    "All  is  well." 
And  felt,  not  seen,  the  presence  doth  descend 

Of  him  who,  friendless  'mid  his  wheeling  spheres, 
Made  the  vast  mind  of  man,  to  comprehend 

Himself  and  them,  and  gave  it  love  and  tears. 


LUCY 

AH,  touch  those  minor  chords  again, — 
They  steal  away  a  nameless  pain ; 
26 


And  let  me  take  that  little  flower, 
So  pure,  so  fresh,  so  sweetly  fair. 

Its  odor  seems  to  share  the  power 
Which  hides  within  that  simple  air, 

To  wake  the  true  and  beautiful, 

With  hovering  wings  unseen  to  lull 
To  peace  beyond  compare! 

Play  on,  that  I  may  close  tired  eyes 

And  dream  of  honeyed  hours  gone  by, 
Or  waken  in  a  paradise 

That  not  as  far  away  doth  lie, 
Seeing  revealed  the  glory  of  thy  soul, 
Catching  its  sweetness  in  the  notes  that  roll 

In  great  waves  by, — 
Feel  thy  heart  throbbing  in  the  notes  that  roll 

Their  great  waves  by! 

Play  on, — now  evening  thro'  the  bar 
Shepherds  the  loitering  flocks  of  night, 

And  on  a  sea  of  peace  doth  rock  afar 
The  cradle  of  a  newly  born  delight 

Beneath  a  sky  of  love  without  a  stain ! — 

Ah,  play,  dear  child,  and  play,  and  play  again, 
Until — good-night ! 


SONG 

"To  bless — not  gain"  is  love's  refrain, 
And  so  'twill  be  forever, — 

The  heart  must  die  and  live  again, 
And  self  lie  dead  forever, 
27 


Or  them  shalt  know  the  sacred  glow 
Of  love 's  delight — ah,  never ! 

Oh,  come  and  know  how  deep  is  woe,- 
How  near  thou  art  to  Heaven; 

Oh,  come  and  feel  a  music  peal 
Which  jars  the  gates  of  Heaven, — 

Oh,  come  and  fare  where  angels  are 
And  peace  and  prayer  at  even ! 


MEMORIES 

WHEN  no  one  sees 

The  burning  tear-drops  unforbidden  well 
From  thoughts  that  may  in  utterance  find  no  ease — 
Secrets  that  partly  to  ourselves  we  tell 

When  no  one  sees. 

When  none  are  near  the  pitiless  shadow  feeds 

As  it  may  please 

And,  ravening,  stirs  the  bones  of  evil  deeds ; 
Yet,  mid  the  dross,  and  fairer  so,  may  spring, 

Beneath  the  trees, 

A  few  white  buds,  along  the  path  to  fling 
Some  fragrance,  and  more  welcome  tears  may  bring 

When  no  one  sees. 


DOROTEA 

THOU  art  a  powerful  sorceress  whose  spell 
All  near  thee  weakens; 

28 


Thou  art  a  rock  uncharted, — all  in  vain 
Are  towers  and  beacons ! 

Thine  is  the  modest  loveliness  only  bared 

By  flowers  at  even; 
Thy  heart  is  sweeter  than  within  them  lie 

The  dews  of  heaven. 

Thou  art  the  limitless  depth  of  space, — the  soft 

Blue  veil  that  hides  it; 
Thou  art  the  ocean's  dark  abyss,  the  wave, 

The  bird  that  rides  it. 

Like  flashes  from  a  dread  volcano 's  cloud 

Shoot  thy  swift  glances, — 
As  music  o'er  the  moonlight  water  stealing, 

Thy  sigh  entrances. 

Idly  they  doubt  or  fear ! — to  pluck  a  flower 

Gives  pain  to  thee, 
Thou  silent  dove  upon  a  masthead  clinging 

Far  out  at  sea! 

Thou  art  an  angel,  weary  and  disheveled, 

With  feet  that  bleed, 
Bringing  a  light  to  one  within  the  shadow 

His  steps  to  lead, — 

Nay,  not  an  angel  either, — one  still  dearer 

To  anguish  human: 

Thou    art, — when    one    beholds    with    vision 
clearer, — 

A  little  woman ! 
29 


HOLDING  THE  REINS 

A  GOLDEN  chariot  swift  is  driven 
From  ocean  to  the  fields  of  heaven, 
And  there  its  white  steeds  champ,  all  sweat 
ing 

From  the  steepness  of  their  pull; 
Silver  tones  their  hoofs  are  beating ; 

From  their  harness  beautiful 
Jewels  glance  and  gleam  like  dew. 
They  hurry  thro '  the  fields  of  blue, 
Flowing  mists  their  necks  adorning, 
"While  a  boy  that  heeds  no  warning, 
But  that  fearful  height  disdains, 
Sits  and  pulls  the  silken  reins. 

But  the  bravest  meet  disaster ; 
And  the  steeds  run  faster  and  faster 

Till,  amid  the  unseen  dangers, 
Strikes  a  golden  wheel.    The  bridle, 

Straining,  breaks.    Then,  as  a  stranger 's, 
Hear  those  steeds  his  shoutings  idle. 
They  are  loose  and  wander  free, 
Here  and  there  o'er  land  and  sea, 
Till  the  old  sea-hunger  stings  them 
And  their  own  wild  nature  flings  them 
Forward  over  crags  and  snows. 
Downward  each  then  leaping  goes, 
Past  the  topmost  pines,  unresting, — 
Past  the  eagles,  madly  breasting 
Danger  thousandfold, — still  lunges 
Onward  (while  a  white  nymph  plunges 
By  him,  clinging  to  his  mane), 
Back  to  the  ricks  of  foam  again. 
30 


DRIFTWOOD 

THERE  is  a  book  which  drifted  long  unread, 
And  in  it  wild-flowers  pale  and  long  since  dead ; 
A  poem  called  ' '  The  Book  of  Job ' '  therein 
Also  is  found,  'mid  tales  of  God  and  sin, 
And  one  brief  scrawl  which  spells  to  memory 's 

eye 

As  precious  words  as  in  its  covers  lie ; 
For  there,  in  girlish  style,  is  lightly  penned 
The  name  of  her,  a  first  and  dearest  friend, — 
Of  one  who  was  when  in  the  skies  o'erhead 
As  yet  a  glory  shone  (with  her  it  fled!) 
Freely  she  lived, — nor  bowed  she  to  the  high, 
Nor  scorned  the  low,  but  lent  a  ready  sigh 
To  each  one 's  sorrow,  with  a  kindly  smile 
For  all  but  those  who  gossiped  and  the  vile. 
One  only  other  woman's  name  those  pages 
As  good  as  she  have  snatched  from  ruined  ages. 
Unmarried,   "Miss"  she  wrote   and  not  the 

name 

I  knew  so  well, — I  ne  'er  had  seen  this  other ; 
And  as  I  read  it,  through  the  tears  that  came, 
I  smiled  to  think  a  "Miss"  should  be  my 

Mother. 


PEACE 

0  MY  comrades,  why  such  eagerness  and  hasting, 
Such  gulping  down  of  life  and  never  tasting  ? 
I  am  going, — you  may  tarry  here  in  town. 
The  trees  do  not  hurry  in  their  growing, 
31 


Nor  even  the  little  flowers  to  their  blowing, 

Nor  the  red  leaf  to  its  fall  among  the  brown. 
Ye  will  not  hide  yourselves  where  I  shall  hide  me, 
Where  fern  and  laurel  linger  green  beside  me, 

And  soothe  the  hectic  year  with  dreams  of 

spring ; 

Ye  will  not  know  the  wild  primeval  feeling 
When  solitude  and  stillness,  gently  stealing, 

Untie  the  cords  that  bind  the  spirit 's  wing ; 
Ye  will  not  hear  life's  undersong  the  ocean 
Singeth  around  the  keen  ship 's  quiet  motion 

And  the  cedars  and  the  hidden  rivers  sing. 


SHADOWINGS 

BENEATH  the  smoky  rafters  of  the  pines 

The  cedar 's  censer  swung, 
And,  bending  in  the  chancel  dim  and  bare, 
A  maiden  spirit  all  her  wealth  of  prayer 

From  mines  of  sorrow  wrung 
Poured  on  the  quivering  stillness  of  the  wood ; 
For  then  was  heard 

No  wildwood  cry, — no  dreaming  bird, — 
No  voice  but  of  the  throbbing  of  her  blood 
And  beating  of  the  waves  of  upper  air, — 
Prayed  for  a  mortal's  love, — 
Of  immortality  and  barren  ease 
Sick  now  to  death,  as  of  a  slow  disease. 

Unpitying,  cold,  upon  the  depth  above 
Her  ship  of  pearl,  'mid  softly  scudding  seas, 
The  chaste  moon  steered.     "Oh,   soon! — oh, 
soon!" 

32 


The  wan  one  sighed  and  sighed  again, 

As  if  in  answer:     "Pain? — yea,   death  and 

pain,— 
Yes,  give  me  these,  that  I  may  be  like  him 

And  he  may  love  me !    Oh,  disrobe  me  all 
Of  power,  and  with  mortal  passion  dim 

A  form  that  blinds  and  awes,  and  quick  let 

fall 

The  triple  veil  of  light  which  hides  this  brow 
From  mortals, — let  him  love  me! — now, — oh, 

now!" 

She  waited.     First  came  shadows,  warm  and 

blent 

With  many  odors  sweet  and  pungent, — sent 
As  heralds  of  a  presence  of  delight, — 
And  lo,  was  heard  the  spirit  of  the  night : 
"Behold!"  she  cried,  "thou  fool  and  traitor 

base 

To  piety  and  realm  and  ancient  race, — 
Thou  shalt  be  mortal ! "     "  Oh ! 
By  what  strange  words  to  give  me  all ! " 
"Yea,  strange  to  thee,  but  stranger  shalt  thou 

know: 
When   that   our   messenger   did   fetch   thy 

prayer, 

Came  one  from  him  thou  seekest  to  thy  fall : 
'Make  me,'  that  starry  youth,  whose  stream 
ing  hair 
Doth  like  my  girdle  glitter,  cried : 

'  If  in  thine  eyes  my  secret  heart  is  fair, 
Make  me  a  deathless  spirit  of  the  air ! ' 
I  heard  him,  and  to  mortal  ken,  he  died. ' ' 
33 


Then  as  a  star  a  heavenly  beauty  glowed 
'Ere   it  was  quenched,   and   onward  swiftly 

strode 

The  mighty  presence,   while  a  woman  there 
Fell  fainting,  like  a  wilful,  loveless  bride. 


THE  FEATHER 

SENORA,  let  much  fanning  be 
And  listen :  there  is  on  my  mind 

Or  in  my  blood,  a  word  for  thee ; 
And  I  would  have  it  soft  and  kind. 

The  gold  rim  on  thy  languid  arm, 
The  whiteness  of  that  small  white  glove 

For  such  as  thou  may  have  a  charm, — 
Not  truth, — not  loyalty, — nor  love. 

' '  Oh,  love, — my  love, — is  low  desire, — 

'Twas  clear  that,  since  our  game  began. 
'Twas  not  thy  fault  if  too  much  fire 
Was  kindled  by  a  careless  fan. 

' '  Jose  would  not  insult  thee  so. ' ' 

Such  coquetry  as  coiled  and  sprung! 

With  kindly  words, — 'tis  best, — I  go. 

But  who  would  dream  ? — and  one  so  young ! 

"Jose  can  love  a  woman  well: 

He  holds  her  kindly  in  his  arms. 
And  Jose 's  not  the  man  to  tell 
How  much  he  knows  about  her  charms. ' ' 
34 


Jose — Jose!     Yes, — yes, — I  know. 

And  yet  I  deemed  this  woman  good : 
Dreamed  that  but  holy  fires  could  glow 

In  eyes  so  soft !     'Twas  but  a  mood — 

One  sweet  hour  wandering  from  far  days 
To  shrivel  in  the  glare  of  shame. 

Don  Jose  take  thee! — go  thy  ways! 
Play  on  with  other  hearts  thy  ' '  game ! ' ' 

How  daintily  that  raven  hair 

She  decked  for  me  with  trembling  spray 
Plucked  from  a  living  bird !    She  'd  wear 

My  love  thus  for  some  Don  Jose ! 

' '  More  love !    Ah,  love  is  but  a  word 

For  silly  maidens  of  sixteen! 
For  thee  the  dance, — the  eyesight  blurred 
With  wine,  and  kisses  crushed  between. 

' '  I  stay  too  long, — my  presence  tires ; 

But  this,  the  final  time,  thou'lt  bear 
The  torture,  since  Jose  admires 

Thy  patience  toward  me. ' '    Have  a  care ! 

Senora,  if  not  love,  there 's  fear ! 

What  have  I  said?    Ah,  stay, — yet  stay! 
For  if  'tis  pain  to  have  thee  near, 

I  shall  go  mad  with  thee  away! 

' '  I  must  forgive,  then,  this, — the  worst  ? ' ' 
So,  thou  wilt  drag  me  in  the  dust  ? 

Yet,  by  thy  dark-eyed  beauty  cursed, 
I  love  thee  still,  because — I  must. 
35 


Nay! — wherefore  cast  beneath  thy  feet 
That  feather? — it  is  fair  to  see. 

' '  That  crime  thou  never  shalt  repeat. ' ' 
My  pain,  alas,  was  naught  to  thee ! 

But  have  I  erred  and  done  thee  wrong? 

Jose?    "I  am  thy  Don  Jose! 
To  me, — a  fool, — thou  dost  belong ! ' ' 

A  pardon,  on  my  knees,  I  pray! 


ALONE 

OH,    tell   me,    dost   thou   blame    and    hast    thou 
sorrow  ? — 

Dost  brood  on  that  wild  hour 
When  thou  didst  beg  of  me, — didst  pray  to  borrow 

Wisdom,  or  calm,  or  power 

Which  lay  beyond  thee  and  thy  heart  of  woman, — 

That  lost  hour  when  I  could 

Have   stilled    and   left   thee — had   we   been   less 
human — 

Had  I  myself  withstood, — 

When,  with  my  all  of  dark  laid  bare  before  thee, — 

Full  many  a  spot  and  stain, 

Thou  could 'st  not  stem  the  flood-tide  that  rushed 
o'er  thee 

From  the  uncharted  main? 

Ah,  we  have  seen  each  other  well! — one  only 
Thus  such  as  thou  behold, 
36 


But  after,  dear,  the  world  is  nowhere  lonely, 
The  heart  grows  never  cold. 

Now  never  may  our  Pleiades  unheeded 

Before  thee  spread  their  skein, 
Nor  quite  may  fail  the  faint,  the  sorely  needed 

Hope  all  will  be  again. 

So,  then,  dream  on!    Ah,  wake  not  from  a  dream 
ing 

In  which  thy  heart's  all  lies : 
All  peace,  all  promise,  be  it  sooth  or  seeming, 

The  starlight  of  such  skies ! 


GOSSIP 

' '  GOOD  morrow, ' '  said  the  butterfly, 
And  fain  with  him  would  prattle; 

The  tortoise  winked  a  weary  eye 
At  all  her  tittle-tattle. 

Said  she  to  me : ' '  I  know, ' '  said  she, 
Why  his  politeness  fails  him, 

He  cares  not  how  his  neighbors  be 
And  nothing  ever  ails  him; 

"A  life  of  scorn  for  all  things  born 

He  stingily  doth  spend  it, 
And  slyly  hides  from  morn  to  morn, 

So  time  forgets  to  end  it. 

"Such  sinners  can  be  touched,"  said  she, 
"And  stirred  to  great  emotion, — 
37 


It  needs  the  merry  fire,  you  see, 
To  set  some  hearts  in  motion." 

"But  thou,"  said  I,  "what  life  is  thine 
That  thou  mayest  scorn  thy  brother 's  ? 

I  know  thee ;  thou  dost  play  and  dine, — 
What  dost  thou  for  the  others?" 

"Before  a  drooping  girl  I  fly 
To  paint  her  cheeks  with  roses, — 

I  light  a  twinkle  in  her  eye 
And  fill  her  hands  with  posies. 

"I  am  a  living  ecstasy, 

The  handmaid  of  the  flowers ; 

I  bring  their  dresses,  which  you  see 
Hung  in  the  sunny  showers ; 

' '  The  plumage  of  sweet  thoughts  am  I— 
Fair  Venus'  fairest  daughters, 

The  wings  whereon  they  float  and  fly 
0  'er  woods  and  fields  and  waters. 

"I  tear  my  mummy-cloth  and  rise 

(All  poets  know  my  duty) 
To  mirror  gleams  from  Paradise 

Of  hope  and  joy  and  beauty!" 

I  would  have  answered,  but  the  tips 
Of  Psyche's  fingers  pressing, 

Did  gently  seal  my  angry  lips, 
And  left  the  tortoise  guessing. 


38 


JEPTHA'S  DAUGHTER 

I  LOOKED, — and  she  was  gone !    She  had  been  there 
Before  there  came  a  darkness  everywhere, 

For  plain  was  seen 

(And  nothing  else  mine  eyes  would  see  at  all) 
The  dogwood  leaf  a  trembling  hand  let  fall 

"Where  she  had  been. 

Into  the  depths  of  fatherhood  had  swept 
Another  flood, — those  deeps  whose  billows  slept 

In  restless  rest 

When  the  pale  moon,  but  not  the  sun,  returned ; 
That  shone  no  more ! — its  sunken  glory  burned 

Beyond  the  west. 

My  sorrow's  child  stood  splendid  and  serene, — 
No  thought  of  self,  except  as  all  had  been 

Vain  sacrifice 

For  one,  now  hopeless,  she  had  lived  to  cheer. 
With  upward  look  she  spoke  (and  shed  no  tear)  : 

' '  Through  pain  we  rise ! ' ' 

An  amulet, — a  relic, — now  I  wear 

(That  last  brave  word  so  sweetly  spoken  there), 

A  jewel  bright 

As  those  that  shine  glad  lovers'  eyes  to  please, 
Kindled  in  shells  by  throbbings  of  disease 

In  deep-sea's  night. 

COMFORT 

WHERE  the  bare  white  bones  are  bleaching, 
And  the  bare  black  arms  upreaching ; 
39 


Where  last  summer 's  face  is  blotted, 
Blurred  and  crumpled,  marred  and  spotted 
Till  it  never  may  again 
Lifted  be  from  mire  and  rain, — 

There  I  hide  me  from  the  city; 
From  men 's  gazes  and  their  pity ; 
From  their  praises  and  their  scorning, 
In  the  dullness  of  the  morning, — 
In  the  darkness  or  the  light 
Which  is  neither  day  nor  night, — 

And,  when  limping  rabbits  shiver, 
And  the  loose  vines  drip  and  quiver, 
And  only  on  the  laurel's  fingers 
Glinting  leaf  of  green  yet  lingers; 
Then, — ah,  then! — the  blessed  cold 
Quenches  thought  to  ashes  old. 


SERE 

WHERE  'EB  I  turn,  the  pungent  smell  of  leaves,- 

The  odor  of  their  fatal  fever, — flies ; 

For,  like  a  serpent  through  the  forest  trailing, 

Creeps  now  the  busy  one  that  never  dies, 

Crosses  the  one  that  never  is  across, 

And  leaveth  blight  along  the  track  he  weaves. 

And  yet  I  cannot  hear  a  sound  of  wailing, — 

And  yet  I  do  not  feel  a  sense  of  loss. 

As  calmly  as  to  watch  the  billows  break, 
I  gaze  upon  this  manifold  decay, 

40 


Delighting  in  its  green  and  gleaming  jewel 
Of  laurel  leaf,  with  settings  brown  and  gray, 
Half  thankful  that  the  trees  are  naked  all, 
And  loving  for  their  own  pathetic  sake 
(Not  longing  for  the  spring-time  and  renewal) 
The  tender,  clinging  kisses  of  the  fall, — 

Too  glad  for  desolation  thus  complete 
To  draw  me  down  and  fervidly  caress, — 
To  whisper  in  the  hollows  of  my  heart 
The  secret  things  of  utter  calm  distress, 
To  hide  me  and  to  still  me  from  alarms, — 
To  coax  me  and  to  lead  my  weary  feet, — 
From  every  wish  to  win  me  far  apart 
Save    this, — to    rest, — swoon, — perish    in    such 
arms! 

THE  MISER 

Now,  like  a  mute,  bedraggled  dove, 
Day  quivers,  wounded,  where  it  lies ! 
And  softer  are  wan  memory's  cries, 

And  kind,  lean  down  grey  clouds  above. 

Not  here  the  white  reproachful  gleam, 
The  cold,  hard  candor  of  the  skies, 
Or  fleckless  covering  that  lies 

And  makes  last  summer's  face  a  dream. 

Not  here  pure  snow-drops  high  o'er  eaves, 
To  be  like  angels'  footsteps  lifted, 
But  dingy  shreds  by  each  wind  shifted 

Through  miry  pathways  when  it  grieves. 
41 


Yet  here,  where  ragged  mould  reeks  wet, 
The  green  leaves  glint  in  cameo  white, 
The  rich  red  berries  flame  out  bright, 

And  tremble  priceless  sprays  of  jet. 

Ah,  here  I  love  to  hide  my  woe, — 
My  jewel  (while  with  hers  the  wild 
Doth  soothe  me  like  a  sobbing  child), 

My  dearest  jewel, — in  the  snow! 


THINE  ANGELUS 

DAWN  and  eve  and  eve  and  dawn 
Come  with  dews  and  come  with  rain, 

For  the  roses, — roses  gone, — 

Still  bring  thee  dear  thoughts  again. 

Dawn  or  eve,  if  dark  or  fair, 

Little  doth  my  darling  care. 

Blithely  as  the  mock-birds  run, 
Flaring  over  dawn's  pale  grass, 

Or  white  pigeon  in  the  sun 

Swings  to  feel  eve 's  breezes  pass, 

So  thy  soul  doth  find  or  leave 

Sweet  repose  at  dawn  or  eve. 

Gently  bells  ring  through  the  morn, 
Gentlier  at  the  close  of  day, 

Ringing  into  hearts  forlorn 

Comfort  and  the  grace  to  pray ; 

Ringing  tears,  but  tears  divine 

For  that  happy  heart  of  thine. 

42 


SUNSET 

WHEN  its  great  white  bloom  the  land 
Opened  'neath  a  dawn  serene 

Help  was  none, — on  every  hand 
Sorrow  wounded  clear  and  keen : 

Like  a  desert  lay  the  pain 

That  we  ne'er  should  meet  again. 

Now  at  eve  wide  seas  between 
Are  a  story  that  is  told, — 

Years,  farewells  that  might  have  been ; 
Unseen  arms, — thine  arms ! — enfold 

My  lone  eyes  like  brooding  wings, 

And  thy  love  is  near  and  sings, — 

Sings  me  to  the  far-off  day 
"When  thy  smile  would  flatter  grief 

Even  in  a  mother's  way, — 
Sings  of  life  no  longer  brief 

Together,  and  a  rainbow  nigh 

Trailing  roses  through  the  sky. 


TO  THEE! 

No  campo  santo  sees  thy  form  in  stone, 
Yet  hast  thou  truly  a  memorial, — one 

As  loving, — not  more  sure  to  melt  away ; 
For  it  is  1,  whom  thou  hast  left  so  lone : — 

It  is  I,  only, — ah,  the  glittering  whole 
Not  ample  were  of  heaven  from  pole  to  pole 

To  fill  the  measure  of  a  tomb  for  thee, 
Could  any  tomb  bring  comfort  to  thy  soull 
43 


But  it  is  I  who,  as  the  beads  are  told 
Upon  Time's  rosary  of  jet  and  gold, 

Still  wait  to  learn  the  secret  thou  should 'st 

know, — 
What,  at  the  end,  his  fingers  may  unfold. 


SONG 

As,  with  upraised  wings  descending, 
Pigeons  end  their  long,  lone  flight, — 

So  she  cometh,  slowly  wending 
Through  the  waiting  hush  of  night : 

Comes  to  speak  of  love  unending, — 
Comes  to  be  my  one  delight, — 

Whispers  of  no  radiant  morrow 
After  years  and  years  of  pain, — 

Sobs  a  tale  of  others'  sorrow 
They  and  she  can  ill  sustain, — 

Comes  to  bring, — to  bring  and  borrow 
Courage  to  go  on  again. 


AFTER 

THE  one  that  slept  had  wakened  in  this  child 
Whom  both  had  loved.    Beside  her  he  beheld 

A  hope  that  sobbed  in  passing,  wan  and  wild. 

She  knew  not ;  but  through  childish  otherwise, 
Before  her  time  her  heart  of  woman  swelled 

To  dry  the  secret  mist  that  dimmed  his  eyes. 
44 


But  this  from  him  she  hid,  as  he  from  her 
And  others  better  hid  his  pain.  Afar 

She  felt  one  wish  within  her  bosom  stir, — 

One  only  wish, — it  would  not  let  her  rest; 
She  watched  him  with  her  pity,  like  a  star 

That  throbbeth  for  another  in  the  west. 

But  after,  when  the  storms  were  overpast, 
When  round  about  him  weltered  leaden  peace 

And  she  was  something  more  than  child  at  last, 

Their  pathways  led  together,  and  the  two, 
Bearing  an  old-time  yearning,  with  increase, 

Long  silent  stood :  from  silence,  then,  they  knew. 


COME! 

CHILD,  rest  awhile  in  mine  thy  flitting  hand. 
Thy  heart's  horizon,  to  the  silver  brim 
With  sunshine  filled,  if  wider,  might  grow  dim. 

Thou  can'st  not  have  thy  daisies  and  a  ring. 
Ah,  if  thou  listen,  do  not  understand ! 

But  come  and  love  me, — all  thy  treasures  bring. 

I  do  not  seek  the  things  that  glad  thine  eyes, — 
I  do  not  hear  the  music  in  thine  ears; 
Nor  thou  the  far,  faint  strains  from  wondrous 
years, 

Nor  thou  the  sobs  of  dear  caressing  hours! 
And  what  I  have  is  fairer  than  the  skies, 

But  what  thou  boldest,  Darling,  only  flowers. 


EVENSONG 

Now  from  the  shadows  fly  the  swifts,  Irene, 

As  we  have  watched  them  fly, 

And  from  the  darkened  years  return 

Lost  doves  of  memory, — 
And  odors  of  a  purple  land 

Where  linger  thou  and  I, 

Unknowing,  near  the  parting  of  the  ways, 
Irene, 

Like  children  who,  in  play, 
Are  lost, — quite  lost, — upon  the  shore 

Of  one  fair  summer  day. 
For  now  from  eve 's  awakening  hours 

The  veil  hath  dropped  away, 

Which  seemeth  all  too  near  to  me,  Irene, 

Too  dreary  and  too  bright; 
Which  hideth  from  the  longing  eyes 

The  beauty  of  the  night 
And  from  the  lonely  heart  shuts  out 

A  heaven  of  sweeter  light. 


IRANIAN 

'Tis  she  whom  I  could  doubt  when  near 
Illuminates  these  pictured  skies, — 

More  bright  than  fall  of  pity's  tear 
Or  dew  in  lily  lies, — 

She,  lovelier  than  the  moon  and  star 
Wan  evening  in  the  ear  of  night 
46 


Departing  hangs;  more  dear  by  far,— 
As  dear  as  lost  delight, — 

Yea,  down  the  billowy  desert's  coast, 
Its  gilded  capes  that  ring  afar, 

Tis  music's  tones  I  love  the  most 
The  palpitating  skies  unbar, — 

For  through  the  wild  a  splendor  sings 
"Which,  singing,  to  my  heart  replies ; 

All  melted  are  the  frozen  springs, 
The  buried  longings  rise. 


THE  SECRET  PLACE 

AH,  I  would  pluck  the  heart  of  darkest  night 
And  I  would  steal  the  bleeding  sunset's  heart 

To  hang  rare  jewels  there,  or  with  delight 
Wring  tears  from  thee,  beloved  though  thou 
art, 

To  deck  with  dew  my  offering  of  flowers 

That  fades  and  fails  within  a  few  short  hours. 

Dear,  only  thou  may'st  enter, — thou  and  I, — 

And  only  thou  and  I  may  ever  know 
Where  two  far  golden  lamps  that  hang  on  high 

(Gilding  the  darkness  of  the  aisles  below) 
Down  alabaster  walls  soft  shadows  fling, 
Like   plumes  that  fall  from  some  fair  angel's 
wing. 

Like  music  is  the  turning  of  a  door; 
Like  ecstasy  the  trembling  of  a  veil: 
47 


Ah,  lead  thou  on !  be  near,  but  on  before, — 
For  too  much  hope  hath  made  my  courage 

fall- 
All,  if  thou  wilt,  go  nearer,  love,  to  them, 
And  on  the  threshold  kiss  their  garments'  hem. 

All  night  long  a  beauty  like  the  moon ! 

All  night  long  a  sweetness  like  the  stars ! 
Softer  than  the  waves  of  afternoon, 

To  and  from  the  temple's  dome  and  spars, 
Carrier  doves  athwart  a  desert  fly, 
And  white  the  desert  looks  up  at  the  sky. 


MINOR  CHORDS 

IN   the   spring   the   young   birds   have   their 
mating, 

But  thou  hast  only  pain ! 
Full  many  are  the  seasons  of  thy  waiting, 

And  wilt  thou  hope  again? 

Thou  lovest, — thine  are  glimpses  of  that  beauty 

For  which  all  living  yearn, — 
Foreshown  in  silent  hour  to  toil  and  duty 

And  secret  tears  that  burn ; 

And    thine    love's    changeless    certainty,    the 

feeling 

Which  will  not  be  denied, 
"Which   hears,  beyond   the  dreadful   thunder 

pealing, 

The  gay  returning  tide ; 
48 


Which  sees,  about  the  tower  slow  bells  are 

shaking, 

The  fair  white  pigeons  fly ; 
Which  waits,  how  near  soe'er  the  heart  to 

breaking, — 
Still  waits  and  will  not  die! 


AUTUMN  LEAVES 

FULL  sad  went  he  and  slow ;  but  on  before 
The  other  ran,  with  fluttering  skirts  of  white. 

He  paused  and  mused  beside  the  brooklet's  shore, 
Where  beech-trees  in  their  images  delight. 

Full  sad  was  he,  and  knew, — or  deemed  he  knew,— 
No  hope  should  rest  upon  a  heart  so  young : 

A  girl, — a  child, — a  butterfly  that  flew, 
Forever  gay,  the  dancing  flowers  among. 

But  there  is  other  wisdom :  as  the  doe 
Noteth  the  leaf,  so  innocence  at  play 

Heard  a  faint  sigh,  the  falling  leaf  of  woe, — 
Heard  and  drew  near,  and  would  not  go  away. 


SCENERY 

NAY,  there  was  dust  within  mine  eyes ; 

Thou  see  'st  'tis  a  gusty  day. 
Look !  where  an  eagle  circling  flies ! 

I  think  I  '11  put  the  book  away, 
For  'tis  not  well  a  scene  like  this 

By  reading  idle  verse  to  miss. 
49 


Look,  dear,  how  like  a  band  that  binds 
A  lady's  hair  yon  torrent  winds! 

' '  Right  fair  and  bright  it  seemed  ? "  I  know. 

"A  pretty  name  the  maiden  had?" 
Perhaps.    When  thou  shalt  older  grow 

Recall  the  song, —  'tis  not  so  bad, 
And,  read  by  thee  in  some  far  year, 

Ah,  may  it  then  as  bright  appear ! 
Yes,  child,  remember,  read  and  pray 

For  him  who  did  not  read  to-day. 


TELL  ME 

AT  God 's  winepress  now,  slow  draining, 
Dost  thou  taste  unfinished  wine 

Blessing  it,  or  uncomplaining, 
Or  in  secret  heart  repine 

For  a  draught  long  past  attaining, 
For  a  dreamed  cup  divine? 

Seem  the  deeper  vision  taught  thee, 
Thy  sweet  gifts  which  sanctified 

What  the  leanest  harvest  brought  thee, 
Now  as  blest  as  dawns  that  died, 

And  the  potter's  hand  that  wrought  thee,- 
Pity's, — dear  as  aught  beside? 

On  one  road,  in  one  dim  region, 
For  one  day  of  changing  sky, — 

Tell  me,  has  thy  heart's  religion 
Failed  thee :  is  it  best  to  lie 
50 


Calm,  but  silent,  while  in  legion 
Words  that  could  be  deeds  go  by  ? 

As  the  bee  seeks  honey  merely, — 
Heedless  of  all  else  doth  fly, 

Loved,  to  love  again  sincerely, — 

Souls  like  thine  for  this  would  sigh, — 

Loving,  to  be  loved  as  dearly, — 
Though  in  gardens  of  the  sky; 

And  it  helps  to  think  that,  choosing 
Now,  thou  would  'st,  for  all  the  blame, 

Little  for  thyself  but  losing, 
Lift  a  sweeter  face  the  same, 

Wide-eyed,  wistful,  unrefusing, 
Hiding  not  the  tears  that  came. 

Much  it  helps,  where  much  is  needing, 

Thinking,  if  a  secret  thorn 
That  beloved  breast  is  bleeding, 

'Tis  the  loveless  live  forlorn; 
Thinking  of  low  paths  receding, — 

Of  a  higher  hope  newborn. 


EASTER 

RUTH  sat  beside  him,  silent,  moving  not, 
Her  thoughts  on  him,  and  sometimes  on  the  child, 
Than  she  more  fair  and  wise  and  wonderful, — 
Sat  in  the  dreary  gleaming  of  the  sun, 
The  sadness  and  the  waiting  of  mid-morn, 
By  life,  as  by  a  breathless  globe,  shut  in. 
51 


Near,  from  the  eaves,  the  last  of  melting  snow 
Shed  glittering  drops  o  'er  sepulchres  of  flowers. 
Of  these  he  thought, — how  they  ere  long  would 

rise 

Clear,  holy  spirits :  he  could  see  them  now 
As  they  would  doff  their  dusty  cerements. 
Of  these  he  thought,  until  one  gleam  of  peace 
Came,  like  a  wandering  sea-gull,  lingering  not. 
At  him,  and  chiefly  at  his  eyes,  he  knew 
She  could  not  look.    And  when,  full  suddenly, 
Loud  bells  with  anguish  shook  the  Easter  morn, 
He  thought,  perhaps  her  strength  will  not  avail, 
And  so  he  called  her  name. 

ASPHODELS 

ON  Saturn's  rim  hath  stood  my  soul 

To  lasso  comets  with  a  thought 
And  glittering  balls  in  play  to  roll ; 

But  soon,  with  cosmic  sorrow  fraught, 
It  sighed  again  for  earth's  control, — 
It  longs  to  drink  the  breath  of  flowers 
Again,  in  these  love-haunted  bowers. 

A  hand  now  sweeps  the  dusky  lyre 

Aerial, — first  by  notes  possessed 
More  bright  than  crackling  leaves  on  fire, 

And  then,  like  birds  that  hush  to  rest, 
Deserting,  one  by  one,  the  choir, — 
'Tis  thou,  with  fingers  dripping  balm, 
0  midnight,  and  thy  radiant  psalm! 

That  call  of  soul  to  soul! — oh,  hear! — 
From  that  sweet  heaven  adust  with  stars! 
52 


At  last, — oh,  come! — no  more  I  fear 

The  rending  of  the  veil  that  bars, — 
Knowing  the  asphodels  are  near, — 
The  lilies  and  the  asphodels 
And  one  who  close  beside  them  dwells. 


BACK  FROM  THE  DESERT 

OUT  of  that  desert  did  I  lead  the  way 

Where  on  love's  manna,  hiding,  we  had  fed. 
There  for  a  thousand  years  we  thought  to  stay, 

Unfound,  unsearched  for,  as  the  lonely  dead. 
There  wert  thou,  in  the  night  and  in  the  day, 

Beside  me,  O  Beloved, — day  and  night 

No  change  e'er  bringing  save  a  new  delight, — 
Far,  where  the  wings  of  grief  could  never  fly, — 

Far,  where  the  future  and  the  past  were  not. 
But,  in  the  midst  of  sweetness  a  deep  sigh 

Heard  I,  when  sighs  had  been  so  long  forgot. 
I  heard  it,  and  I  feared  to  ask  thee  why ; 

And  thou  could 'st  not  have  answered.    Sad  and 
weak, 

I  pondered  long,  and  found  no  word  to  speak, 
But  led  thee  forth  into  the  darkening  west. 

I  should  have  known,  Beloved,  hearts  like  thine 

Do  crave  a  life  of  pleasure  all  divine, 
And,  blessing  not,  have  never  yet  been  blest. 


HAST  THOU  FORGOTTEN? 

THOU  who  not  yet  in  Beatrice's  train 
Art  numbered,  but  from  scenes  familiar  lost 

53 


No  less  than  she,  I  marvel  dost  thou  mind 
How,  by  thy  primal  innocence,  and  trust 
As  infantine,  and  by  an  answering  care 
Thy  spirit  clear  was  cherished  ? 

Thou  wert  then 

Forever  turning  that  to  drink  which  made 
Thy  life,  as  lily  toward  the  light:  less  fresh 
A  new-leafed  willow  trailing  wet  with  dew : 
Gay  as  a  duck,  by  distant  thunder  roused, 
Fanning  with  wide-uplifted  wings  the  air, 
When  the  rain  whips  and  whitens  the  black  lake 
And  fitfully  the  gusts  are  in  the  trees. 

Hast  thou  forgotten  how  thy  heart  approved 
And  welcome  gave  to  duty,  toil  and  care 
For  others, — how  the  touch  of  grosser  thought 
Grew  painful,  and  to  harm  an  insect's  wing 
Seemed  harder  than  to  suffer  grievous  wrong  ? 

Hast  thou  forgotten,  thou  of  those  the  last 
Permitted  for  a  time  fair  days  to  bless, 
How,  in  the  haven  of  a  chosen  dell, 
Like  a  deep  water  was  the  peace?    Through  din 
Of  wheels  and  men,  the  city's  wide  unrest, 
It  left  us  not ;  and  still  the  folding  star 
Was  seen  more  exquisite,  and  evening 
Settled  more  sweetly,  and  the  world  was  kind. 

The  woods,  the  streets,  the  thought  for  others,- 

these 
Can  never  be  unbeautiful  again. 


54 


ALSO 

BESIDE  the  desert  toss  their  flames  again 
The  kindling  poppies  in  the  breath  of  dawn. 

The  level  sunbeams  shimmer,  and  the  plain 

Is  threaded  with  the  morning  song  of  birds. 

I  hear  again,  as  friend's  familiar  words, 
A  thistle  leaf  that  halts  and  scrambles  on. 

Within  the  watered  fields,  the  yellow  wheat : 

Along  their  waters,  poplars  white  and  tall ; 
And  overhead  a  sky  serene  and  sweet 
Stained  by  a  crescent,  like  a  flying  bird : 
A  quiet  deeper  for  the  whisper  heard 
Of  solace,  by  a  passing  breeze  let  fall. 

And  there  a  maid,  like  wheat  and  poppies  fair, 

Leadeth  her  sheep  to  water  at  a  well. 
The  shepherds,  resting  in  the  shade,  declare 
'Tis  Laban  's  daughter, — for  a  stranger  youth 
"Who  gazeth  on  her,  eager  seeks  the  truth ; 
And  they,  not  knowing,  of  his  uncle  tell. 

Now  is  a  glad  first  service  kindly  done, — 

The  first  of,  oh !  how  many  yet  to  be ! 
For  her  he  rolls  away  the  heavy  stone 
Shutting  the  spring ;  and  thinks  it  not  amiss 
Of  peace  upon  her  cheek  to  press  the  kiss. 
To  tell  his  coming  homeward  hasteth  she. 

And  then  begin  long  waitings  of  a  heart 
Untainted,  0  Beloved,  like  thine  own, — 
55 


V 

But,  ah,  the  thought  of  thee, — of  what  thou  art 
And  how  it  is  with  thee,  so  far  away ! 
Also  to  thee  shall  seem  but  as  a  day 

Twice  seven  years,  though  parted  and  alone, — 

For  that  which  I  have  seen  within  thine  eyes 
And  thou  in  mine,  and  they  so  long  ago, 
Is 'changeless  as  the  loves  in  Paradise, — 
Primeval, — new, — eternal!     Days  and  years 
Shall  mark  it  not,  but  only  such  pure  tears 
Of  gladness  or  of  sorrow  as  may  flow. 


SHADOWS 

THE  suns  will  set,  the  hills  and  plain 
By  stillness  flooded  be  again; 
White  pigeons,  greater  flakes  of  snow, 
Again  will  melt  in  evening's  glow; 
But  when  all  wandering  wings  are  fled, 
What  shall  be  left  thee  in  their  stead  ? 
Thine  eyes  shall  look  and  look  again, 
Thy  heart  not  crave  a  look  too  plain 
Lest  these, — thy  last, — should  fade  away 

(They  could  not  wholly  fail  to  bless,) — 
From  roses  of  a  better  day 

The  shadows  in  thine  emptiness. 
But  patience! — though  no  promise  smile. 

No  self -deserting  in  thy  need! 

Be  patient ;  let  no  thought  or  deed 
Thy  wounded  heart  defile. 
So,  take  thy  burden  and, — farewell! 

The  worst  of  all  thou  could  'st  not  know 
56 


The  goblet  from  thy  hand  that  fell, 

The  day-dreams  that  forever  go, 
Must  leave  thee  yet  the  pure  delight 
Which  ever,  through  the  longest  night, 
Makes  sweet  the  tears  that  flow. 


THE  DELL 

IT  is  so  long,  old  trees,  it  is  so  long, 
Ye  crouching  flowers  beside  the  path  that  speak 
Remembered  things  together,  and  thou  stream 
0  'erstrewing  these  with  purity  and  light, — 
It  is  so  long ! 

When  did  I  hear,  from  out  beyond  the  wood, 
The  voice  of  one  who  called  me  as  she  came  ? 
The  squirrels  stopped  to  listen,  and  the  birds, 
'Ere  I  could  speak,  made  answer  as  she  came, — 
It  is  so  long ! 

These  saw  her  haste  to  greet  me, — saw  her  hair, — 
As  thine,  bright  spirit  of  the  waterfall, — 
Trembling  and  tossed  with  gladness,  in  the  noon 
Of  days  too  brief, — too  brief,  but  all  joy's  own: 
It  is  so  long ! 

The  dell, — ah  me ! — unchanged !  The  hermit  nun, 
Peace,  for  her  refuge  chose  it.    Slowly  here 
Unfolded,  one  by  one,  of  that  fair  soul 
What  petaled  thoughts  and  precious  impulses ! 
It  is  so  long ! 
57 


Perhaps  'twas  wise  to  bid  her  to  forget, — 
Perhaps  she  changed, — ah,  would  it  had  been 

true! 

Yet  looks  which  once  did  greet  me  with  delight 
I  shall  not  see,  if  we  shall  meet  again, — 
It  is  so  long ! 

No ! — I  shall  see,  if  I  such  eyes  can  bear, — 
A  look  shall  see, — O  passionless,  sweet  child, 
What  shall  I  see,  since  all  these  lonely  years, — 
What  hear  within  thy  voice,  if  that  can  speak  ? — 
It  is  so  long ! 


IRANIAN  REST 

WHAT  would  'st  thou,  0  my  soul,  would  'st  only  see 
New  green,  and  that  shall  not  again  be  brought 
The  cup  of  Indian  summer,  anguish  fraught, — 
Or  leave  the  lonely  darkness  of  the  night 
Though  there  walks  beauty  in  her  noon  of  might, 
Her  bird  Iranian  challenging  afar 
And  hearkening  an  answer  from  some  star, — 
Or  shun  to  hear  the  Master  when  he  sings 
Because  of  clouds  and  showers  that  lurk  behind 
The  golden  calms  that  brood  upon  his  mind, 
Nor  think  on  her,  a  fair  Rose  radiant  made 
To  comfort  illness  hopeless  and  afraid, 
Nor  on  a  faded  bridal  garment  shown 
With  trembling  secrecy  to  one  alone? 
Time  o  'er  the  minor  chords  will  move  his  hands, 
As  hers  the  sea  along  the  starlight  sands, 
As  in  long  afternoons  the  faint  wind  clings 
Amid  the  forest's  many-bended  strings; 

58 


And  this  is  of  earth's  music,  and  must  be 
Or  all  be  lost. 

The  sweet  birds  ring  throughout  the  rocky  vale 
Their  friendly  answers  or  some  fonder  tale, — 
A  valley  into  which  the  jagged  blue 
Like  to  a  broken  bowl  is  falling  through. 
Here  pale,  thin  poplars  murmur  to  the  stream 
At  moments,  grudged  from  some  delicious  dream, 
And  in  the  palpitant  air  a  crag  is  swung 
Too  near  o  'erhead,  its  horny  forehead  hung 
With  opal  trinkets  borrowed  from  a  sky, 
Which  loves  in  shameless  nakedness  to  lie : 
By  night,  like  beacons  of  terrestrial  wars, 
Burn  on  this  crest  the  many-clustering  stars. 
Here  ragged-robins,  peeping  through  the  wheat, 
Wild  hollyhocks  and  clover,  dragon-flies, 
Hanging  adown  their  blue  threads  tanglewise, 
And  many  an  herb  of  little  fame  I  greet, — 
Old  friends  still  faithful  under  these  far  skies: 
They  knew  it  would  be  lonely  not  to  meet 
Familiar  faces  here. 

As  evening  dies, 
Beside  a  rock  volcanic  I  recline, 
(For  in  such  setting  rough  the  burnished  grain, 
O'erripe,  is  striving  now  to  stand,  in  vain,) 
Hearing  anear  the  limpid  waters  rush, 
And  drinking,  now  and  then,  aerial  wine 
From  cups  of  white  and  yellow ;  for  a  bush 
Doth  roof  me  over  thick  with  eglantine, — 
To  clasp  and  kiss  which  gentle  cousin's  charms 
A  young  wild  apple  crooks  his  knotty  arms. 

59 


And  yellow- jackets,  wasps  and  honey-bees 
Have  come  to  bring  me  other  sweets  than  these 
Whereon  so  drowsily  they  seem  to  feed, — 
Sipped  in  fair  gardens  of  Hesperides : 
There  many  a  gnawing  worm,  amid  the  leaves, 
Of  silken  thought  a  precious  coffin  weaves, 
Wherein  the  star- winged  lustres  dreaming  lie. 

All  day  serenely  fair  the  breathing  sky 
More  still  then  ever  rested.    Now,  at  eve, 
A  purple  lily,  tremulous  and  pale, 
Below  the  stamen  of  as  pale  a  star, 
Stands,  'mid  the  jeweled  hills,  the  silent  vale. 
And  now  ye,  0  ye  griefs  of  other  years, 
Sunk  in  a  rotting  muck  of  sin  and  shame, 
Folly,  remorse  and  dross  that  shuns  a  name, 
Rise,  white  and  holy,  washed  in  secret  tears, — 
Yea,  purer  than  the  flakes  of  snow  that  fly 
Aloft,  new-shaken  from  their  windy  sieve! 

Why  are  ye  here  ? — why  beckon  one  who  fled 
So  long,  alas,  so  wearily,  so  far, — 
Beyond  where  poet  first  upon  a  height 
Set  beacon,  flashing  to  a  distant  hill 
In  blackness  lost,  the  pure  Promethean  light, — 
Through  chasms,  darker  than  man's  spirit,  fled, 
Past  whipping  vines  and  where  grim  talons  seize 
The  rocks  in  vain  of  long  since  vanished  trees — 
By  swooning  cliffs  where  mortal  madness  dies 
And  cataracts  that  quench  pursuing  cries? 

Long  there  he  gazed  on  our  great  mother's  throes, 
Self-sculptured,  vast,   and  prayed  such  mightier 

woes 

60 


(Tho'  sad  it  were  by  loss  alone  to  gain) 
To  blot  all  records, — all ! — that  so,  new-born, 
Unloved,  unloving,  lone  he  might  remain, — 
Lone,  but  not  lonely, — brother  to  the  rock 
Which  shoulders  mountains  with  a  tireless  will 
And  parries  with  a  laugh  the  lightning 's  shock, 
When  the  black  hurricane  her  wings  hath  spread, 
And  looks  upon  the  years  in  silent  scorn. 

A  lake  of  calm,  deep-folded,  lured  him  here, 
Secure  down-clambering,  like  a  virgin  rill, 
Or  as  a  deer  when  all  the  heights  are  still. 
And  lo !  unlocked  for  and  unwished,  appear 
Ye,  the  far-hidden,  the  forsaken, — yea, 
Outraged  and  soiled  and  madly  thrust  away ! 
Yet,  let  it  be  in  mockery  ye  come, 
I  hear  such  accents  that  I  dare  not  say : 
"Go!— leave  me!" 

From  before  mine  eyes  there  falls 
What  is  a  darkness,  but  hath  seemed  a  day ; 
Low  voices,  sweeter  than  of  waterfalls 
Decking  white  roses  with  their  glittering  spray, 
Or  thronging  bees,  when  in  the  noon  they  hum 
Through  jasmine  arbor  and  more  patient  make 
A  maiden  at  the  loitering  of  the  hours, 
Awaken  one  who  deemed  himself  awake, 
To  find  in  blossom  long-forgotten  flowers. 
These  pour  from  out  their  lucid  urns  of  blue 
Sweet  incense,  0  ye  holy  ones,  to  you! 

And  ye,  how  kind ! — and  all  those  fears,  how  vain ! 
0  thou  Queen  Sorrow ! — thou  with  all  the  grace 
Of  new-made  mother  in  thy  sacred  face, 

61 


Behold  a  dove,  storm-parted,  found  again, 
That  hath  no  wish  save  near  thee  to  remain ! 


NIGHT  IN  GULISTAN 

'Tis  here  the  fearless  bulbul,  with  a  song, 
Alone  dares  brave  the  beauty  of  the  night ! 

He  pauseth  oft  and  long 
Deep  drafts  to  take  of  peace  and  of  delight, 
Checking  the  silence  when  'tis  grown  too  strong 

And  rapturously  bright, 
Darkly  enchambered  in  the  silver  trees, 
Disdaining  sleep  for  more  luxurious  ease. 

Now  through  the  nunnery  of  white  blooms  the  sheen 
Of  locust,  apple,  orange-blossoms,  all 

May's  prelude  trembles.    Seen 
By  those  thro'  whom  his  loud,  clear  measures  fall, 
The  shadows  lighten,  and  the  lights  between 

Are  living  wings.    The  tall 
Poplars  beside  the  running  waters  keep 
Watch  near  the  pools  wherein  their  brothers  sleep. 


FOLLOWING 

THOU  whose  eyes  still  keep  the  blue 
Of  a  heaven  beyond  our  ken, 

Thou  dost  heavenly  gates  undo 
For  thy  melody,  which  then 

Falleth  soft  o'er  domes  and  towers 

And  o'er  parched  hearts,  like  showers, 
62 


For  thy  soul  is  tuned  unto 

Sounds  that  sleeping  angels  dream 
Tones  like  thine,  from  urns  of  blue, 

Madder  ages  might  redeem, 
With  their  sad  and  sweet  refrains 
Waking  what  of  tears  remains. 

Softly  as  her  star  the  moon, 

Or  as  sunset  after  rain, 
Or  as  faith  and  hope  full  soon 

Follow  when  buds  wake  again, 
So  the  wandering  world  ere  long 
Follows  thee  and  thy  lone  song. 


SONG 

COME  with  roses, — ring  the  bell ! 
Ring  it  well, — gay  throngs  are  moving 
Round  the  carriage,  laughing,  shoving. 
What  is  life  save  only  loving? 

Scatter  roses, — ring  the  bell ! 

Bring  ye  lilies, — ring  the  bell! 

Ring  the  bell, — fair  lids  are  smarting, 
Fair  cheeks  cold  and  fresh  tears  starting. 
There 's  a  death, — they  call  it  parting, — 

There 's  a  death, — so  ring  its  knell ! 


LADY 

Do  but  let  me  live  awhile, 
Dainty  lady  free  from  guile, 
63 


Thou  whose  future  and  whose  past 
Trouble  never,  but  each  pain 
Of  another  finds  refrain 

And  is  all  the  woe  thou  hast. 

Let  me  stay,  and  have  no  fear, — 
Evil  never  could  come  here; 
"Were  it  lost  in  this  sweet  place, 

It  would  in  thine  own  surprise 
Share,  and  shrink  and  hide  its  face 

From  the  light  that  round  thee  lies. 

How  thy  laughter,  Lady  fine, 

Lifts  me  to  a  joy  like  thine ! — 

As  the  soft  Italian  skies 
Lift  me,  when  the  glad  sun  flings 
( 'Mid  the  down  of  angels'  wings) 

Ladders  from  the  realms  divine. 

Though  no  sisters  of  the  faun, 
Though  no  daughters  of  the  dawn 
Whom  the  drowsy  flowers  caress 

For  thy  handmaids  worthy  be ; 
Yet  the  grass  thy  feet  may  press, — 

Even  the  weeds  are  touched  by  thee. 

Being  from  some  radiant  sphere, 
Do  but  let  me  linger  near, — 
Me,  with  many  a  wound  and  stain. 
For  my  dark  night  be  a  star ! — 
Light  me, — bless  me, — near  or  far, 
None  the  worse  for  what  I  gain. 


HANDS 

BEHOLD  yon  picture  overhead 

Of  life  in  Pozzuoli: 
A  woman  sewing — by  her  bed 

A  shrine  of  virgin  holy. 
Comfort  thence  she  long  hath  sought 

(Hard  her  life  and  lowly). 
Rest  thee,  dame,  and  pray  awhile ! 
Tho'  we  passersby  may  smile, 

Yet  we  pass  more  slowly. 
Many  a  lady  for  thy  cot 
Gladly  would  forsake  her  lot, 
If  her  jeweled  hand,  as  thine 

Might,  in  melancholy, 
Rest  in  peace  upon  the  shrine 

Passed  in  Pozzuoli. 


ECCE 

GUIDO,  thine  Ecce  Homo's  face  may  tell 

How  high  his  faith  has  borne  the  Christian 's  art ; 
Thy  brain  and  hand  have  wrought  it  wondrous  well. 

This  Ecce  Femina  was  by  thy  heart 
All  pitifully  drawn, — as  like,  we  know, 

As  that  the  judge  who  then  could  dare  to  slay 
A  trembling  dove  already  wounded  so 

Did  shrink  from  daily  to  his  final  day, — 
His  pain  like  this  we  suffer  now, — for  us 

She  punisheth, — one  woman  for  them  all. 
0  worthy  Guido ! — but  we  pray  that  thus 

No  Guidos  more  may  our  rude  hearts  appall ; 
65 


But  let  our  passing  victims  to  the  veil 

In  peace  withdraw  such  patient  looks  and  pale. 


SERENE 

HE  might  have  died  and  she,  alas !  lived  on, 
He  might  have  left  her  to  her  grieving  here, 
Left  one  to  whom,  as  woman,  love  was  all. 
He  thinks  it  is  as  well  that  she  is  gone. 
He  who  is  left  is  dull, — even  one  so  dear 

Remembers  little, — can  but  scarce  recall 
Her  features, — any  save  the  tender  eyes 
Wherein  her  soul,  in  all  its  beauty,  lies. 

He  thinks  'tis  well,  since  both  their  hearts  have  rest. 
He  thinks  she  was  not  for  a  world  like  this, — 
A  world  unkind  or  mad,  which  will  not  see 
Who  are  the  good, — nay,  even  tho'  the  best. 
'Twas  sad  he  wakened  from  a  dream  of  bliss, 

Yet  not  so  sad,  for,  after  all,  'twas  he ; 
For,  ah !  he  thinks  hath  never  left  her  eyes 
That  dream,  but  comforts  her  in  Paradise. 


LAZZARONE 

WHERE  the  lazy  lazzarone 
Gulp  their  evening  maccaroni 
Still  the  birds  of  black  are  flitting, 
Weaving  auguries  as  ever, 
In  a  patient,  slow  endeavor, 
Or  on  ruined  columns  sitting. 
66 


Jeered  these  lazy  lazzarone 

Cassar  in  his  glory  car 
When  he  flew  the  wild  war  eagle 

Where  the  cloudy  oceans  are, — 
Gazed  and  gaped  thro'  all  the  stages 
Of  the  drama  later  ages 
(When  a  priestly  finger  lifted 
Bade  yet  larger  scenes  be  shifted) 

Played  where  he  had  played  at  war ; 
Played  at  ruling  far-off  regions 
Which  no  Caesar's  bloody  legions 

Saw,  or  ever  dreamed  so  far ; 
While  these  birds  of  black,  but  changing 

For  an  old  a  newer  column, 

To  and  fro,  in  silent,  solemn 
Flight  of  augury,  went  ranging. 

Nero  and  Savonarola, 
Tarquin  and  Eienzi  Cola, 
Tarquin's  Lucrece  and  the  dame 
Lucrece  of  another  fame, 
Laughter,  license,  love  and  tears 
Twisting  in  and  out  the  years ; 
And  these  faithful  birds  through  all 

Auguring  of  good — not  ills, 
Weaving  o  'er  thy  deathless  brow 
Ever  some  new  coronal 
Fair  as  is  the  thin  moon  now 

Come  again  to  deck  thy  hills. 


67 


CYPRESS 

THE  cypress  plumes,  as  well  they  may,  in  Rome 
Mourn  with  a  special  beauty,  and  of  all 

Fairest,  as  should  be,  cluster  round  the  tomb 
Of  one  who  heard  their  call. 

Here  sorrow,  in  her  everlasting  home, 
His  chant  funereal 

For  Adonais  yet  doth  lean  to  hear 

Whose  echoes  fainted  on  the  singer 's  bier. 

Ye  seek  all  vainly  for  a  third  fair  grave : 
She  doth  not  lie  where  such  a  heart  should 
rest — 

She  who  so  rashly  and  so  fondly  gave 
The  refuge  of  her  breast 

That  lorn  Actaeon  from  his  hounds  to  save ; 
But,  slanting  from  the  west, 

The  loving  sunbeams  linger  on  the  grass 

Above  him, — then  to  Adonais  pass. 

Twin  spirits  suckled  in  wild  war  by  song, 
And  to  a  heedless  generation  given, 

Sweetly  they  slumber!     Here  nor  pain  nor 

wrong 
May  come.    Their  skiffs,  far  driven 

Beyond  the  pathways  which  to  ships  belong 
And  by  mad  lightnings  riven, 

Here,  underneath  their  loved  Italian  sky, 

Together  in  earth 's  fairest  haven  lie. 


68 


THE  TRYST  OF  ALKAIOS 

'Tis  the  hour  of  love, — 
Linger  not,  fair  maiden. 

Sappho,  here,  above, 
All  the  boughs  are  laden 

With  flowers,  for  curtains  of 
My  poet's  home — my  Aiden ! 

Sweet  and  clear  the  urn 

Of  thy  silver  singing, 
Tears  that  bless  and  burn 

To  thy  fond  one  bringing : 
Love's  best  dreams  return, 

Round  his  wild  heart  clinging. 

As  the  grapes  from  vines 
Hang  thy  cluster  'd  tresses : 

More  than  all  their  wines 
Are  thy  fond  caresses 

When  the  love-light  shines 
0  'er  life 's  dark  distresses. 

Thy  throat  uttereth 

Such  a  balmy  breathing 

As  the  cedar's  breath 

In  the  night  wind  seething, 

Or  that  of  flowers,  their  death 
In  new  glories  sheathing. 

Brightly  glows  thine  arm 
As  the  beams  that  tan  it; 
69 


Lightlier  moves  thy  form 
Than  the  airs  that  fan  it ; 

Beauties  rich  and  warm 
(Like  the  ripe  pomegranate) 

Linger  round  thy  mouth, 
And  in  dizzy  whirls 

Pass,  to  where  love's  drouth 
Thy  soft  eyelid  furls 

When  the  purpled  South 
Spells  that  conquer  hurls. 

Maenad! — from  wild  hymns 
By  love  led  apart, — 

Dian! — (breast  and  limbs — 
None  of  Dian's  heart), 

Through  whom  madly  swims 
Everything  thou  art, 

Hail ! — and  farewell,  care ! 

Joy  now  pain  replaces: 
O'er  thy  queenly  air 

Play  now  gentle  graces, 
As  about  thy  hair 

Light  soft  shadow  chases. 

Wondrous  keen  wit's  spear 
Now  aside  thou  layest; 

Wondrous  sweet  to  hear 
What  full  low  thou  sayest 

When  in  love  drawn  near 
Thou  thy  heart  betrayest ! 

70 


NIGHT  IN  THE  DESERT 

THOU  hast  seen  the  wondrous  miracle  when  o'er  us, 

Where  hung  the  sky  and  sun, 
In  the  transfigured  depths  are  set  before  us 

The  sweet  stars  every  one, — 

'Tis  wondrous,  as  should  further  revelation 

Transform  or  hide  each  star, 
With  our  poor,  fragile  fleshly  habitation, — 

All  things  that  round  us  are, — 

,And  usher  to  our  ken  scenes  yet  more  splendid 

Where  love,  this  love  we  share, 
Should  be  by  deeper  harmonies  attended 

In  yet  serener  air, — 

Like  trees  we  see  in  waters  dimmed  and  broken, 

But  over  straight  and  tall, 
Should  take  a  marvelous  meaning,  here  unspoken, 

Fair  dreams  fulfilling  all. 


WANDERING 

His  father's  cot,  in  valley  sheltered  deep 
And  framed  about  with  gently  rustling  leaves, 

Haunts  the  tossed  sailor 's  sleep ; 
A  matted  vine  beneath  a  porch's  eaves 
Makes  sad  far  birds,  whose  breasts  in  absence  keep 

A  music  which  relieves : 

Me  the  wild  flock  of  mountains  whence  I  came 
Calls  ever — elsewhere  all  is  void  or  tame. 

71 


There  the  sleek  beech  is  mottled  o'er  with  light 
And  scaly,  like  a  serpent,  lifts  the  pine. 

'Mid  dark  green,  burning  bright, 
I  love  to  see  the  gum-tree 's  red  leaf  shine. 
There  sprawls  the  grape,  with  reckless  waste  of 
might ; 

There  moves  the  graceful  line 
Of  cat  or  snake,  swift  death  in  beauty  furled, 
'Mid  noxious  herbs,  the  wildwood's  underworld. 

There  on  a  royal  couch  of  green  to  lie ! 

Ah,   there,  while  near  obsequious  trees  should 
wave 

Their  gorgeous  fans,  could  I 
Yield  to  soft  waters  and  grey  rocks  they  lave, 
To  ladder-rungs  of  light  that  toward  the  sky 

Lift  from  the  glimmering  cave, — 
Hear  unrepining  voices,  feel  kind  eyes 
Of  some  small  poet,  singing  ere  he  flies ! 


THE  DREAM  OF  RUTH 


A  SPLENDOR  trembling  in  a  pallid  form 
And  therefrom  tiptoed  in  the  act  to  start, 
But  pausing,  angel-wise,  at  sight  of  harm 

To  wounded  creature,  from  the  herd  apart, — 
So  ran  my  dream.  Ruth,  silent  as  a  flower, 
Did  look  too  long,  too  near,  upon  a  heart 

72 


Which,  little  as  a  widowed  bird,  had  power 

To  conjure  hope, — whose  morn  and  noon  and  night 

Passed  like  the  printless  footsteps  of  an  hour 

Or  shadow  of  a  far  cloud's  dizzy  flight 

Which  hastes  o  'er  summer  fields  and  leaves  no  trace. 

She  read  what  elder  saw  not, — she,  a  child, 

To  him  an  airy  elf,  whose  laughing  grace 
Bespoke  clear  days  by  not  one  care  defiled. 
So,  as  a  child,  he  kissed  her  on  the  stair 

At  bed-time,  when  she  paused, — it  seems  he  smiled 
And,  knowing  not,  upon  her  wayward  hair, 
Gently  a  consecrating  hand  let  fall. 

But  soon  the  parting, — she  to  placid  hall 
Where  kindly  sisters  kindness  taught  returned, 
He  to  the  strife  for  which,  till  then,  he  burned. 

ii 

And  then  years  passed, — he  heard  men  call  them 

years, 

He  marked  them  little;  and  again  they  met, 
Ruth  still  a  child,  with  all  that  most  endears 

Of  sweet  and  true  and  helpful.    No  regret 
Within  her  heart 's  still  precincts  might  abide, 
But  thoughts  which  made  her  poorer  to  forget. 

More  years,  and  lo !  a  wondrous  maid  was  there, — 
A  rare,  pale  maiden ;  and  the  child  had  died. 
Serener  than  the  child's  her  look  and  air, 

73 


More  prone,  he  thought,  to  laughter ;  and  the  rest 
(When  they  and  Ruth  and  he  drew  side  by  side) 
Drank  eagerly  her  song,  her  jest,  her  merry  shout. 

Tremor  nor  sigh  might  have  her  leave  to  say 
She  marked  his  presence.    Into  it  and  out 
She  came  and  went ;  and  then  passed  on  her  way. 

And  she  of  all  seemed  youngest, — and  most  blest. 
Young   were   her    eyes,    her   smiles   like   opening 

flowers. 
Each  day  was  cheated  now  of  half  its  hours. 


m 

Well,  be  what  will,  the  slowest  years  move  on 
And    changes    come.      So    Ruth,    he    knew,    was 

changed ; 
For  she  is  coming,  all  her  girl  days  done. 

He  saw, — he  heard, — 'twas  not  as  fear  arranged. 
Forgotten  peace  was  his,  'ere  she  was  gone; 
And  many  loved  her  who  are  now  estranged. 

But  from  her  womanhood  not  yet  was  won 
Her  heart 's  lone  secret, — more  it  never  knew : 
'Twas  later  guessed  from  broken  words  and  few. 


IV 

There  fell  a  noon ;  and  in  the  garden  slept 
Tired  summer,  resting  from  maternal  care 
Of  flowers  full-grown.    Beneath  a  tree  they  kept 

74 


A  drowsy  vigil.  Bees  were  fumbling  there, 
Fretting  the  clover-blooms  and  cosmos  tall. 
Then  Ruth  her  long-hid  kindness  could  declare 

(But  scarce  articulate  were  the  words  let  fall), 
How  she  would  bring  young  life  to  patient  eyes,- 
How  of  her  youth  she  strove  to  lend  him  all. 

Then,  pointing  to  some  testy  wasps  that  made 
A  meal  of  yellow  apple,  waits  and  tries 

Again  to  speak ;  but,  of  more  speech  afraid, — 

******* 

I  dreamed  still  more ;  but  do  not  bid  me  tell ! 
And  stranger  than  the  dream  was  my  surprise, 
And  what  in  this  dim  waking  world  befell. 


FOREVER! 

A  YOUTH  who  fled  the  city,  all  at  war 

And  heartsick  with  town  slavery  and  din, 
Did  stray  into  the  wildwood  long  and  far, 

And  loud  he  swore  to  dwell  for  aye  therein 
In  lordly  freedom.    As  he  passed,  he  heard 

A  calm,  uneven  song,  which  filled  far  lanes 
Of  forest  with  the  music  of  a  bird, — 

A  low,  but  cheerful  song,  whose  clear  refrains 
Perhaps  a  mate  within  her  dark  nest  heard, — 

A  free  and  fearless  song,  whose  clinging  strains 
His  heartstrings  first  and  then  his  footsteps  drew, — 

A  sweet  and  careless  song,  like  one  that  rang 
Sometimes  within  a  casement  that  he  knew, 

Sung  by  a  maid  unconscious  that  she  sang. 
75 


Soon,  homeward  bound,  he  took  with  him  along, — 
And  still  his  heart  doth  sing, — that  careless  song. 


FOLLY 

THOU  knowest  not  the  arrows 

That  are  blown  from  poisoned  tongues, 
And  thou  knowest  not  the  sorrows 

Of  the  gentle,  or  their  wrongs. 
Turn  thee  back,  thou  foolish  maiden, 

From  a  pathway  sharp  with  stones 
Where  the  weary,  overladen, 

'Mid  the  vultures  leave  their  bones. 

'Nay,  I  reck  not  of  thy  warning, 

Tho'  I  call  it  not  untrue: 
Not  in  hope,  nor  yet  in  scorning, 

Shall  I  do  what  I  shall  do. 
Either  with  me  or  without  me 

Thou  must  walk  with  feet  that  bleed ; 
And  I  marvel  thou  canst  doubt  me: 

I  shall  follow,— do  thou  lead." 

But  what  strength  hast  thou  to  wander 

All  the  way  that  I  must  go  ? 
Ah,  poor  child,  I  bid  thee  ponder 

And  an  idle  wish  forego! 
Thou  couldst  only,  by  thy  weakness, 

Hold  me  back  or  make  me  fall. 
I  have  often  praised  thy  meekness, 

Now,  farewell! — thy  comrades  call. 
76 


'Hear  me  once  and  hear  me  ever: 

Well  my  feebleness  I  know; 
And  I  fear  that  I  shall  never 

All  thy  hard  way  live  to  go ; 
And  I  know,  too,  as  thou  sayest, 

I  shall  harm  thee  with  my  need ; 
But,  persuade  me  as  thou  mayest, 

I  shall  follow, — do  thou  lead." 


TWILIGHT 

AH,  Twilight,  gentle  spirit  who  arrayest 
Thy  weak  limbs  in  a  robe  of  dusky  grey, 

And  every  rare  and  pallid  flower  betray est 
To  deck  with  tenderest  hues  the  bier  of  day, 

Leave  thy  sad  task  awhile,  if  so  thou  mayest, 
Ah,  beauteous  mourner,  stay! 

Not  yet  thy  dew-bath,  lady,  hast  thou  taken : 
Come,  cool  those  burning  eyes  and  weary  feet! 

Not  yet  the  firefly  and  the  moon  awaken, — 
Not  yet  the  swallow  startleth,  blithe  and  fleet. 

Ah,  thou  who  minglest  for  a  heart  forsaken 
The  bitter  and  the  sweet, 

Strike  not  that  wretched  bosom !    All  thy  sighing 
Will  rescue  not  his  breath  who  lieth  there: 

Call  thou  no  more  upon  the  unreplying, 
But  with  the  living  such  wild  sorrow  share ; 

At  thy  feet,  in  darkness  they  are  lying 
With  loads  too  great  to  bear, — 
77 


At  thy  feet,  with  weary  hands  extended 
To  thee,  that  thou  mayest  take  them  in  thine  own ! 

In  thine  ear  they  murmur :    ' '  It  is  ended, — 
"We  can  no  longer ! ' ' — in  thine  ear  alone ; 

To  thy  mantle's  hem  their  heads  are  bended, — 
For  thou  wilt  heed  their  moan ! 

Thou  that  art  friend  to  such  as  have  no  other, 
Whose  hand  doth  heal   the  burning  blush   of 
shame, 

Ah,  bring  fresh  airs,  for  many  are  that  smother, 
And  counsel  bring,  for  well  thou  knowest  to  tame 

The  wayward  heart, — be  patient,  like  a  mother, 
For  they  are  much  to  blame. 


FAREWELL 

LEAVE  me  that  squirrel  dropping  his  loud  hull, 
Yon  red-bird  flaunting  by  in  waistcoat  fine, 

This  water-snake,  from  noonday  ardors  dull, 
And  these  few, — other  laurels  all  be  thine ! 

I  shall  not  lack  for  pomp, — a  glittering  spire 
Of  sunlight  o'er  me,  some  odd  reverend  trees 

(Old  friends  that  chide  not,  question  not,  nor  tire), 
A  shroud  imperial  pricked  with  golden  bees. 

Go, — let  me  be !    My  heart  in  liquid  peace 

Lies  like  a  trout.    Yet  tell  me  this  alone : 
Thy  friend's  brief  hour  hath  brought  some  woe's 

decrease, 

Or,  like  a  bird,  lent  music  ere  'twas  flown. 
78 


INGRATITUDE 

YE  vast  companions  of  man's  vaster  mind, 
Primeval  habitants,  of  chaos  born, 
Whose  inmost  bowels  man  for  gold  hath  torn, 
Whose  horny  skin  hath  ripped  that  he  might  find 
The  still  more  precious  wealth  of  golden  grain, — 
Ye  who  have  been  his  bulwark  when  he  fought 
With  beasts ;  his  school  where  liberty  was  taught, 
And  fed  his  flocks  in  your  most  sacred  fane; 
For  those  things  have  ye  little  thanks, — no  rest. 
Yea,  after  this,  the  wandering  poets  glean : 
These  from  your  trembling  blue,  more  thought 

than  seen, 

Take  further  harvest,  'ere  the  drunken  west 
Kindles  your  tops  to  make  a  funeral  pyre 
For  pale,  dead  day  and  sets  the  heavens  on  fire. 


THE  CRADLE-LAND 

RUGGED  and  bare  the  pathless  mountains  rise, 

Their  jagged  capes  thrust  out  into  the  blue 
Of  heaven's  serenest  ocean.     'Neath  me  lies 

(So  poised  a  lighting  eagle  might  undo) 
Full  many  a  vast,  misshapen  ball  of  stone, 

Near-ripened  for  the  hand  of  fate  to  pull; 
Below,  the  gleaming  of  the  sand  alone 

In  billows  rolled  or  lying  tired  and  dull, — 
Scenes  where,  with  Job 's  lament,  in  verse  began 

Our  paltry  record  as  it  yet  remains. 
79 


And  here  the  sorrows  and  the  ways  of  man 
Have  altered  little  since.    Below,  the  plains 

Cry : ' '  Vanity — all  vanity ! ' '    Toward  kindlier  skies 
The  fainting  traveler  lifts  imploring  eyes. 

BIRDS 

SUBLIME  as  chaos  at  the  dawn  of  peace, 

Above,  below,  for  distant  eons  wait 
Sheer  precipices,  in  unseen  decrease 

Still   crumbling,   like   the   fortunes   of   the 

great. 
Afar  and  lower,  at  the  foot  of  all 

The  blinded  desert  writhes  beneath  the  sun. 
But  overhead  I  hear  the  frequent  call 

Of  birds  which  hither,  thither  sail  and  run, 
By  nothing  save  the  joy  of  living  driven ; 

And  down  the  sunbeams,  like  a  waterfall, 
Their  rippling  song  is  poured  from  quivering 
heaven 

When  ecstasies  oppress  beyond  control, — 

Sweet  as  the  grace  sent  down  to  saintly  soul, 
Or  calm  unto  a  sinner's  when  forgiven. 


HANDS  INVISIBLE 

THE  sheep,  as  still  as  when  the  Grecian  bard 
Caressed  them  with  the  sweetness  of  his  song, 

Above  thee  lingered  near  a  scanty  yard 
Of  ruined  pillar.     This  might  once  belong 

To  temple  whither  victors,  battle-scarred, 
With  hymns  to  gods  now  dead  were  borne  along. 
80 


The  blows  of  time  have  not  thy  glory  marred, 

0  Milo ! — calm  as  in  the  quarry 's  womb 
And  fair  as  when  grew  pale  the  artist's  brow, 

By  thee  made  wild !    New  risen  from  the  tomb, 
Thine  arms  no  votary  decks  with  April 's  bloom : 

Forgetting  pagan  days,  thou  reachest  now 
Hands  all  unseen,  in  pity  for  the  doom, 

Not  of  old  gods,  but  women  sweet  as  thou. 


STILL  FAITHFUL 

THE  fairest  marble  ever  artist's  hand 

Did  kindle,  stood  where  was,  or  may  have  been, 
Great    Sidon, — now    'mid    turbaned    Turks    doth 
stand, 

To  outlive  Stamboul.    Light  they  had  not  seen, — 
Its  Greeks  and  Persians, — many  and  many  an  age ; 

But  not  for  hearts  like  theirs  hath  lost  its  joy 
This  lusty  life !  for  yet  they  haste  to  wage 

Glad  battle  for  their  glorious  Grecian  boy 
Or  Dar-youSj  mighty  King  of  Kings,  beside; 

Or,  where  the  almost-winded  deer  doth  fly 
Those  foes  turned  friends,  on  keen-limbed  Arabs 
ride. 

Above  the  oblong  marble's  corners  lie 
Four  sleepless  lions ;  but  enough  of  fear 
Casts  beauty,  tramping  with  her  quivering  spear. 


NOTHING 

TEMPLES  sublime  which  long  had  lived  to  tell 
New  times  the  magic  of  their  maker 's  wand, 
81 


From  reckless  Turkish  and  Venetian  shell 

Were  called,  when  hopeless  ruins,  to  withstand 
The  stroke  of  war;  and  wondrous  works  in  gold 

Or  bronze  soon  tempted  spoilers,  ere  the  awe 
Departed  from  the  stories  which  they  told, 

Or  sank  beneath  the  ban  of  creed  or  law: 
But  thou,  Andromache,  thou  poet's  breath, — 

Thou  thing  of  naught, — dost  linger  by  the  side 
Of  Hector,  ere  he  hastens  to  face  death, 

Thy  cheek  as  fresh  as  when  thou  wert  a  bride : 
Thy  soft  eye  dropped  upon  his  infant's  hand 

A  tear  not  yet, — and  never  to  be, — dried. 

ELIZABETH 

WHEN  the  news  at  length  they  brought, 
With  the  pictures,  letters, — sent 

All  unopened  (thus  they  thought 
More  to  please  me, — kindly  meant,) 

Like  a  wounded  beast  I  fought, 
'Ere  into  my  soul  it  went. 

He  was  not  the  one  to  blame : 

Women  are  deceivers  all ! 
She  ensnared  him  when  he  came, 

She,  though  pictured  tame  and  tall. 
Would  I  might  but  know  her  name : 

It  is  false, — they  could  recall ! 

With  the  foremost  rode  he  forth, 
On  a  steed  as  proud  as  he : 

Oh,  the  strife  of  south  and  north ! 
Not  a  braver  heart  could  be. 
82 


And  he  knew  my  beauty's  worth, — 
Liars, — no ! — he  loved  but  me ! 

Kind  they  call  me, — careless  all 
For  a  selfish  loss  or  gain, 

Ready  at  a  sorrow 's  call, 

Claiming  oft  another's  pain, — 

Cheerful,  too,  whate'er  befall; — 
Tell  me,  does  my  beauty  wane  ? — 

Would  he  think  me  now  as  fair? 

If  he  could  not,  would  he  find 
Still  a  trace  on  brow  or  hair, — 

Something  left  in  heart  or  mind, 
Something  left  in  look  or  air? 

Would  it  please, — they  call  me  kind  ? 


SWALLOWS 

FOB  you  the  romping  stream  doth  leap 
Huge  boulders,  and  the  lusty  breeze 

Blow  bugle  notes  and  shadows  sweep 

Refreshing  billows  through  the  trees, — 

Ye  vagabonds,  whose  trooping  call 

Makes  heaven's  blue  bell  ring  musical. 

But  dreary  now  the  garden  pond 
That  waited  through  the  sunny  hours ; 

And  desolate  the  trees  beyond 

The  high  wall,  and  the  darkening  flowers ; 

And  lonelier  still  the  silent  sky, 

But  lonely  more  than  all  am  I : 
83 


And,  maybe  for  a  childhood's  day 
Beside  a  stream  in  summer  shade, 

And  maybe  for  the  friendly  way 
They  gossip  near  a  love-vow  made, 

I  linger  as  when  strangers  stand 

With  news  from  home  on  alien  strand. 

Ah,  maybe  these  are  spirit  kin 
Would  lead  still  upward  and  afar 

The  winged  thoughts  that  stir  within 
And  pine  and  know  not  what  they  are,- 

So  near  they  pass  us  by  and  call 

Back,  as  the  deepening  shadows  fall. 


GENTUCCA 

YE  wondrous  histories  in  words  not  told, 

Too  tender  to  be  touched! — of  ye.  not  least, 

Christ  with  his  sisters, — Dante,  thou  with  her, 

The  one  that  soothed  thee,  exiled  and  bereft, — 

Her  from  whose  heart  alone,  I  think,  thy  soul 

Drew  what  in  many  worlds  it  had  not  found, — 

Not  her  of  whom  that  other 's  chiding  tells : 

' '  Beware  lest  she,  too,  perish ! ' '  Leaves  then  turned 

Between  ye,  of  a  story,  copied  down, — 

This  were  a  tale,  indeed !    With  thine  her  name, — 

I  think  she  saw  thee  write  it,  and  besought 

With  thine  to  have  it  live, — her  name  remains. 

Did  she  not  pray :  ' '  Great  Master  and  dear  friend, 

If  thou  canst  not  go  on,  so  fall  the  drops 

Thou  sayest  my  friendship  brings  thee,  leave  my 

name 

84 


Unblotted  there. "    ' '  And  some  will  understand, ' ' 
Did  'st  thou  not  answer,  brushing  tears  away  ? 

GLEANING 

UNVEILED,  she  claspeth  now  the  dew 
And  sunrise  in  her  sheaf, — 

The  foreign  woman:  soon  she  knew 
Who  felt  a  stranger's  grief, — 

Why  barley  stalks  and  not  a  few 
Are  left, — for  whose  relief. 

He  speaks, — behind  her  lashes  then, 

High  billows  lift  and  roll, 
The  seen,  or  guessed,  the  unconf  essed 

Exultance  of  her  soul : 
It  leaves  her  steps  unsure  as  when 

Men  walk  in  sleep's  control. 

Then  in  the  hidden  tears  that  flow 

Now  cradled  hopes  are  gay, 
Then,  with  her  lip 's  reluctant  bow, 

Sweet  thoughts  in  secret  play, 
Then  on  her  cheeks,  forbidden,  blow 

The  fairest  buds  of  May. 

UNWEEDED 

OH,  blame  him  not,  stranger,  or  softlier  chide, 
For  the  weeds, — for  the  flowers  untended ; 

They  tell  him  his  fairy  has  gone  to  abide 
In  a  garden  than  his  more  splendid. 
85 


Yes,  he  waters  black  stalks  with  a  listless  hand, 
And  the  beds  where  the  nettles  possess  them: 

He  is  thinking  how  lilies  would  understand 
When  she  tenderly  leaned  to  caress  them, — 

How  he  'd  hearken  at  eve  to  a  faint,  clear  sound 
(All  the  hearts  of  the  roses  atremble), 

How  he  'd  brush  from  before  her  whatever  might 

wound, 
And  the  pain  of  her  absence  dissemble. 

And  now  would  he  follow  the  print  of  her  feet.., 

Now  only  to  him  still  showing, — 
Ah,  beware  lest  thou  finish  that  work  of  the  sleet 

And  the  rain  through  the  pathways  blowing ! 


JUNE 

THE  loud  cicada,  scents  of  yellowing  grass, 
Limp  rushes  bent  and  lashing  in  the  wave, 

Thick-dropping  leaves  that  round  the  dark  pools 

pass, 
Attend  fair  June 's  swift  progress  to  the  grave, — 

These  and  the  jaded  breeze,  the  yellow-coat, 
The  wasp,  dull  roses,  many  a  fledgling  bird, 

And  gaudy  tangled  weed.     Lo,  not  remote, 
Already  are  the  woodland  heralds  heard ! 

Be  patient,  lorn  Ophelia, — it  is  best: 

Be  calm, — be  silent, — what  is  there  to  say? 

Thou  shalt,  and,  in  some  gardens  of  the  blest, 
Perhaps  we,  too,  shall  have  another  day. 
86 


Nor  thou  nor  we  have  reaped,  but  we  and  thou 
Much  fragrance  of  white  blossoms  may  recall, — 

We  have  not  reaped,  but  there  are  wages  now 
For  those  who  may  not  gather  in  the  fall. 


SEARCH 

THROUGHOUT  the  echoless  palace  of  the  night 
I  sent  my  soul  upon  an  eager  quest: 

My  soul  returned  'ere  yet  the  dawn  was  bright 
And  brought  me  home  a  dark  and  silent  guest, — 

One  that  did  stare  and  in  the  threshold  stood, 
Casting  a  dim,  still  shadow  where  I  lay, 

Which  sent  a  chill  through  all  my  bones  and  blood ; 
And  there  did  stay,  and  there  did  mean  to  stay. 

"What  hast  thou  brought,"  I  said,  "to  one  would 

see 
Where   others    see    not, — feel   what   none    may 

feel, — 

To  him  who  wiser  than  his  kind  would  be, — 
All  secrets  of  the  quick  and  dead  reveal  ? ' ' 

But  my  soul  answered :  ' '  'Tis  the  soul  of  man 
Would  come  to  dwell  with  thee.    No  more,  when 

lone 
Or  neighborly,  in  peace,  as  they  began, 

Thy  days  shall  run,  but  thou  shalt  hear  the 
groan 

"Of  generations.     Thou  hast  but  to  say: 
'I  for  myself  shall  live, — to  all  else  blind,' 
87 


This  shape  unwelcome  from  thy  door  away 

Shall  haste. ' '     I  said :  ' '  Tis  late  to  look  behind : 

''Seek  now  within  the  chambers  of  the  light." 
Soon  through  my  veins  a  peace,  like  pleasure, 
fled, 

For  soon  came  one  who  kissed,  as  dawn  the  night, 
That  other,  bending,  like  a  rose,  her  head. 

Beneath  the  kiss  that  darkness,  trembling,  grew 
From  foul  to  fair :  I  saw  a  brow  of  pain 

By  this  made  radiant.     After,  through  and  through 
I  rested,  sending  not  my  soul  again. 


MARIENGARN 

THERE  lies  a  cove,  dim-lighted  by  the  sun, 

Within  a  twinkling  sea, 
Where  round  my  rest  come  peering,  one  by  one, 

Birds  (these  its  fishes  be) : 
These  through  the  antlered  coral  gleaming  run, 

Knowing  small  fear  of  me, — 

Of  one  from  human  sunk  and  all  that  grieves, 

Kin  to  the  tribe  that  yells 
Its  minute  joy  when  quietude  deceives 

And  clear-heard  lilies'  bells, — 
To  all  small  folk  that  peep  from  curling  leaves 

And  other  like  sea-shells. 

There  may  the  feet  of  conscience  never  come, — 
Her  terrible,  sweet  face : 
88 


Like  nymphs  of  Venus  dropping  from  the  foam 

The  soft  hours  interlace 
Their  fingers,  and  through  purple  caverns  roam, 

A  merry  heedless  chase. 

There  am  I  lord, — my  kingdom  and  desires 

Equal, — none  else  to  please; 
There,  shining  from  afar,  like  winged  fires, 

In  argosies  the  bees 

Bring    the   soul   freight    from   many    gorgeous 
Tyres, 

And  much-untraveled  seas. 


WORDS 

HUNG  quenched  and  white  the  harvest  moon; 
The  quietude  an  owl  awoke 
Who  signaled  from  his  ancient  oak ; 
Then  did  still  forms  the  wood  invade 
Thro'  vague  half-lights  in  rustling  glade; 
Then,  music-tranced,  dim  roses  heard 
The  earliest  vespers  of  a  bird; 
Then  groups  of  meditating  kine 
Stood  dripping  wildwood's  draughts  divine; 
Then,  just  beyond  the  senses'  scope 
Shone  lands  yet  liege  to  faith  and  hope, 
And  that  which  lives  in  blades  of  grass 
Did  rise  and  like  a  spirit  pass. 

The  wine-press  of  the  afternoon 
From  golden  grapes  then  pressed  a  wine 
Which  searched  with  joy  these  veins  of  mine, 
Till  once  again  that  vision  came, 
O  more  than  dear! — too  much  the  same! — 

89 


The  very  look  into  my  need 
Sent  from  a  heart  fresh  taught  to  bleed, — 
The  sigh  like  that  which  autumn  heaves, 
First  looking  on  the  waiting  leaves; 
The  silence  which  thou  could 'st  not  break 
With  words  there  was  no  need  to  speak. 


SONG 

CHILDHOOD'S  royal  idleness, 
Youth's  vast  loneliness  divine, 

Sweeter  womanly  distress, 
Then  a  stronger  hand  in  thine, 

Leading  thee,  and  led,  no  less, 
Down  the  golden  morn's  decline. 

Graceful  as  new  leaf  at  play, 
Tender  as  the  leaves  that  fall, 

In  thy  breast  the  time  was  May 
Through  the  seasons,  one  and  all ! 

Now, — alas! — from  far  away 
In  the  night  I  hear  thee  call. 


ROCKS 

THIS  overshadowing  tree,  this  hut,  this  dale 
Shut  from  the  desert,  seeming  void  and  still, 
Speaks  to  my  heart  of  one  beyond  our  day. 

It  may  be  I  remember, — if  I  dream, 
The  beings  that  inhabit  gentle  dreams 
90 


Are  sisters  to  the  form  which  here  I  see 
As  sweetly  moving  in  these  quiet  scenes 
As  trembling  shadow  of  a  leaf  in  May. 

'Twas  here  she  lived, — here  withered  in  the  fall, 
Leaving  no  like,  as  doth  the  frosted  bloom 
Shook  by  some  lone,  belated  butterfly, — 
Amid  these  silent  rocks,  which  here  no  strife 
Wage  ever  or  foretell :  unquiet  waves 
Roll  not  through  them :  they  rest  and  unto  rest, 
Brief  or  more  lasting,  woo  the  weary  soul. 

Here,  in  her  breast  close-hiding  all,  she  loved, — 
In  solitude  here  drooped,  a  mateless  bird, — 
Unsought,  if  not  unloved,  here  lonely  died ; 
Here  drank,  at  times  (I  trust),  in  this  still  haunt, 
An  opiate  from  the  glimmering  bowl  of  PAN. 
The  fair  young  flower  which  yonder  fading  lies, 
Slain  by  some  envious  spirit  in  despite, 
Hath  rendered  up  a  life  like  hers, — so  frail, 
So  clear,  so  exquisite!     She  seemed  as  one 
Moon-kindled  in  the  mist, — like,  yet  unlike, — 
And,  girt  with  weakness,  strong. 

No  rude,  no  angry  enemy  prisoned  here, 
A  being  formed  of  light.     No  custom  hard, 
No  law, — naught  save  her  gentle  will  availed 
To  tear  apart,  when  soul  to  soul  grew  near, 
The   mingling    tendrils   tipped   with   fire    from 

Heaven. 

Her  breast,  in  patience  and  in  tenderness, — 
But  more  in  tenderness, — to  pain  she  gave. 
All-weighing  and  accepting  all,  and  stern 
91 


Unto  herself  alone,  she  did  but  ask 
From  solitude  that  dreams  intone  the  lute 
So  laid  aside, — from  kindly  absence  calm 
For  her, — and  for  another. 

Here,  full  oft, 

The  friendly  birds,  inquisitive,  drew  nigh. 
Such,  and  few  others,  knew  and  spoke  with  her. 
Near  country  folk,  no  question  venturing,  made 
Freely  their  calls  for  help  and  counsel.    These 
Graceful  as  a  hawk  oft  saw  her  stand, 
A  Ruth  within  their  fields;  and  resting  them 
At  noon,  in  reverent  whispers  would  surmise, 
Not  without  sighing,  more  than  half  the  truth. 


CHALICES 

FASHIONED  from  luminous,  pure  ores  of  thought, 
I  held  a  jeweled  cup  to  drain  to  thee, — 

A  brimming  cup  with  trembling  nectar  fraught, 
Which  at  the  lips  did  fade  and  cease  to  be. 

Then,  with  the  reaching  of  a  leopard,  stole 
A  fair  arm,  pressing  that  dark  draught  between 

Which  heals  all  ills, — but  when  I  seized  the  bowl, 
That  also  failed  and  could  no  more  be  seen. 

The  upper  and  the  lower  sphinx  I  see, 
A  serpent  river  and  a  midnight  glare, 

And  thee  beside  the  roses,  dear, — and  thee 
Beside  the  roses  I  have  brought  thee  there! 


92 


WATCHMAN 

WATCHMAN,  tell  us  of  the  night: 
We  are  weary  and  would  sleep, — 

Tell  us  of  the  desert's  end: 
Is  the  dawning  yet  in  sight? 
Do  the  robbers  roam,  or  sheep? 

Does  the  foe  before  him  send 
Spies  to  plan  the  morrow's  fight? 

Here  a  formless  shadow  falls; 
Here  the  moonlight  on  the  plain 

Showeth  endless  emptiness; 
And  the  far-off  fox  that  calls 
Calls  aloud  in  hungry  pain, — • 

Telleth  but  his  own  distress, 
And  the  great  wide  night  appalls ! 

SPIRITS 

"HAIL  to  thee,  bright  spirit! — whither  now? 

Methinks  such  rosy  limbs  and  dewy  hair 
And  that  soft  star  which  glitters  on  thy  brow 

Should  be  of  dawn,  were  ever  dawn  so  fair. 
I  follow  evening  as  her  bat,  and  yet 
By  some  fair  miracle,  we  here  are  met." 

"  Below,  how  nation  unto  nation  calls, 
And,  as  by  brother,  in  the  one  same  tongue, 

Is  answered!    Look! — the  last  dividing  walls 
Are  tumbling  fast,  and  wide  all  gateways  flung ! 

Fair  gleams  of  many  a  torch,  once  pale  and  rare, 

Are  mingling  in  new  brightness !     Everywhere 
93 


"Seems  each  man's  country!     Yet  the  goal  not 
won! 

Not  east,  not  west,  but  upward  to  yon  heights, 
Thou  who  did'st  send  and  I  who  led  them  on 

Together  now  shall  lead  them.    Wondrous  lights 
In  undiscovered  regions  shall  we  find, 
And  darkness,  like  a  valley,  leave  behind!" 


EGYPTIAN 

HAST  thou  plucked  for  thy  bosom  a  flower,  0  Nile, 
A  flower  to  deck  thee,  or  lured  the  lone  feet 

Of  a  maiden  with  subtle  and  serpentine  guile, 
With  a  whisper  of  life's  or  of  love's  deceit? 

Is  it  hair  that  lies  golden  outspread  on  thy  stream ; 

Are  thy  wavelets  caressing  a  delicate  cheek, 
And,  sweeter  than  open  to  love's  young  dream, 

Kind  arms  wide-unfolded  and  calm  and  meek? 

Afloat  in  the  shadow  and  nearing  the  light, 
It  may  be  a  beautiful  blossom  and  rare, 

Far-borne  from  a  palace, — let  fall  in  delight 
By  a  loved  one,  the  kiss  of  her  lover  to  share, — 

By  a  woman  who  waited  in  sorrow  and  pain 
For  one  who  should  come  and  should  cover  her 

eyes 
From  the   darkness  of   earth, — who   was   coming 

again 

To  cover  her  heart  from  the  pitiless  skies, — 
94 


Or  reached  by  thy  wave  in  some  shrine  of  the  dead, 
Where  the  faces  that  look  from  its  kings  of  stone, 

Like  a  deed  once  ended,  a  word  once  said, 
Have  no  turning  or  change  ever  known, — 

Where,  in  the  moonlight,  the  palms  scarce  nod, 
And  the  roar  of  the  lion  comes  faint  and  far 

To  the  sphinx,  on  her  pedestal,  lone  as  God, 
And  still  as  the  lips  of  the  Pharaohs  are. 


IRENE 

OFT  on  the  rocks  a  cameo  pale  appears, 
A  calm,  clear  profile,  in  these  silent  woods, 
Hid  from  the  desert  by  encircling  hills, 
A  face  like  one  that  held  me,  somewhere  seen, 
Grecian,  long  yellowed,  sculptor's  love  or  dream, 
Now  quite  unknown  both  she  and  one  who  wrought 
In  prophecy  of  all  the  kindly  gra9e 
Which  holds  first  glory  in  a  later  creed, — 
In  prophecy  of  this  and  her, — of  her 
Half  shown  on  yon  sheer  grisly  steep. 
Down  in  the  shallow  pool  about  its  foot 
The  scenes  are  eloquent  of  moods  that  once, 
Through  many  changes  of  untroubled  thought, 
Familiar  grew  to  these  low  forest  roofs 
As  their  own  harmonies  of  light  and  shade, 
When  we,  through  aisles,  sun-gilded,  silent,  green, 
Made  pathway  to  this  weather-sculptured  wall, 
By  aimless  wanderings  of  a  lonely  bird 
Scarce  visited  till  then.     That  gentle  hand 
Then  pressed  away  the  branches  where  it  seemed 

95 


That  never  slippered  savage  yet  had  crushed 
The  velvet  carpets,  stealing  on  his  prey. 
Then,  while  rapt  noon  was  whispering  to  the  soul 
Half-way  we  paused,  perhaps  to  watch  some  cloud, 
In  size  and  lightness  like  a  floating  swan, 
Possess  alone  the  heavens  and  all  their  blue. 

Of  leaves  the  fairest  tints  had,  year  by  year, 
Been  spread  upon  this  basin 's  gorgeous  floor 
And  by  its  viewless  water  there  subdued 
To  softer  colors.     Ruder  wind  passed  not 
The  challenge  of  yon  heights.     No  sight 
Nor  any  sound  told  of  the  desert.    These  thin  rills 
Inaudibly  lived  on  and,  wandering,  found, 
Beneath  low  piles  of  black  and  yellow  mould, 
Their  slow  meandering  way.     Here,  oftentimes, 
We  lingered  till  the  dawning  of  the  night 
Had  washed  the  earth  with  beauty, — yea,  until 
The  rounded  moon  hung  burning  in  the  boughs 
And  stars  that  shone  as  lesser  moons,  too  bright 
For  mortal  gaze,  embossed  the  dark  above, 
Whence,  as  from  vestibule  of  Heaven,  came  down 
Ineffable  the  glory. 

Is  all  changed     , 

Of  such  fair  scenes,  or  "changed  alone  for  one 
Who  now  again  disturbs  the  woodland  calm, — 
Invades  this  realm  no  king  may  call  his  own 
Nor  any  good  man  foreign, — where  there  lurks 
No  weary  fool  to  say  our  hopes  are  vain, 
But    gentle    dreams,    long    elsewhere    withered, 

shrunk, 

Like  truth  disrobing  in  her  secret  dell, 
Slow  disentangle  from  the  thorns  of  care, 

96 


And  masks  that  hide  us  from  ourselves  alone 
Fall  to  the  earth? 

Here  many  a  fadeless  hour 
Whose  solitude  was  touched  with  tender  grace 
And  stillness  with  delight,  for  him  lives  on, 
And  eyes  like  night  or  ocean  deeply  blue, — 
For  him  who  saw  each  thought  that  thrilled  thy 

veins 

And  luminous  mind,  when  slowly  grew  that  form 
A  veil  more  treacherous  as  thy  soul  was  made 
By  deeds  of  goodness  fairer.     Thou  wert  strong 
And  wise,  and  yet  by  some  strange  humor  bent 
To  yield  another  worship  absolute. 

But  when  I  tell  of  thee,  lest  with  my  life 

Thy  memory  quite  perish,  come  but  cries, — 

But  idle  stammerings  come.     The  hearers  look 

In  wondering  silence  which  my  heart  doth  pierce. 

Ah,  how  could  they  be  given  to  know  thee  now 

By  one  who,  blinded  by  unworthiness, 

Thy  thoughts,  thy  looks,  thine  actions, — all  that 

lies 

In  speech  or  silence,  and  thy  words  were  few, 
Could  stoop  to  question  even  at  thy  side  ? 
Seemed  this  to  thee  the  madness  that  it  was? 
Are  thoughts  half  told,  or  ill,  or  left  unsaid 
Here,  that  we  harder  strive  to  speak  again? 

The  swinging  jewel  of  the  butterfly,  the  bee 
Unspeculating,  can  these  now  be  calm, 
And  thoughts  of  angels  we  call  flowers, 
As  thou  and  they  together  in  that  time? 
Each  day  sufficed  thee  and  its  single  aim; 

97 


Wish  hadst  thou  none,  except  to  hear  one  voice 
In  proof  that  not  for  long  went  far  from  thee 
His  thoughts,  who  from  thy  side  each  day  that 

failed 
Less  willingly  was  parted. 

Some  bright  drop 

Morn-wakened,  some  frail  form  of  frost  not  yet 
Killed  by  the  kisses  waited  eagerly, 
Some  pallid  star  absorbed,  as  through  his  prayer 
The  Indian, — even  as  these  thou  seemest  now, — 
Part  of  the  dawn  and  with  it  borne  away. 


THERE 

HEAVEN  should  I  attain, 

And  one  waiting  be, 
Could  I  bear  again 

In  those  eyes  to  see 
Shadow  of  that  pain 

Wrought  by  words  from  me? 

Does  she  there  for  this 

Know  how  I  repent? 
Angels,  for  their  bliss, 

Do  they  true  intent 
Tell  of  words  amiss, — 

What  the  heart  has  meant? 

Tell  of  wild  heart-cries 
When,  at  length, — but  so 

Late! — we  realize? 

Saints  from  earth  who  go, 
98 


Strangers  in  the  skies, 
Do  these  tell, — they  know ! 

Oft  I  spoke  again, 

But  the  true  words  died, 
Tender  accents  slain 

By  negligence,  not  pride, 
By  ignorance, — by  vain 

Folly;  but— they  died! 

Some  there  are  shall  go, 
Raised  and  purified, — 

Whiter  made  than  snow, — 
Meet  to  rest  beside 

Those  mourned  long  below, — 
Bridegroom  there  with  bride; 

But,  howe'er  unmeet, 
Worst  of  sinners  even, 

Her  they  may  not  cheat 
Out  of  half  her  Heaven, 

But  will  let  her  greet 

One,  for  her  sake,  shriven. 

Shall  I  know  her  there? 

Will  she  wait  to  see, 
(Hid  by  virgins  fair), 

What  she  means  to  me  ? 
If  to  look  I  dare 

Will  she  hide  to  see? 

Will  she  hold  to  me 

Arms  by  love  made  weak, — 
99 


Let  her  bosom  be 

Atremble  near  my  cheek, 
That  I  feel  and  see 

What  she  cannot  speak? 


TEARS 

THE  breezes  lie  and  dream  of  her 

Whom  once  they  breathed  so  fondly  on; 

While  this  sweet  hour,  a  gossamer 
Entangled,  loiters  ere  'tis  gone. 

The  roses  and  the  lilies  wait, — 

I  know  not  what  the  roses  wait. 

Aloft,  where  midnight  sits  and  sings, 
Of  other  notes  that  float  and  fail 

I  hear  the  many-murmuring  wings. 
Kind  angels,  soft  as  silken  sail, 

Draw  near :  like  shadows,  where  I  lie, 

The  angels  come  and  linger  nigh. 

They  come  in  answer  to  a  prayer, — 
Not  mine ! — and  these  great  tears  that  fall 

Upon  my  cheek  are  her  despair, 
Lone  waiting  in  celestial  hall. 

Ah,  me ! — and  have  I  yet  to  die 

Who  now  so  near  her  bosom  lie  ? 

The  angels  whisper:    "On  the  earth 
Is  love, — but  pain, — but  sorrow's  load: 

What  there  is  left  of  any  worth 
Save  but  the  steps  to  her  abode?" 
100 


The  angels  come  to  lead  the  way 
For  weary  feet  that  faint  and  stray. 


PERSIAN  CHORDS 

THE  tree-rows  forlorn 

In  September's  still  morn, 

By  the  narrow  straight  way 

Of  the  waters, — they  stay 
Like  sheep  to  be  shorn, 

Or  new  nun  when  she  kneels 

(Ere  the  angels  adorn) 

In  earth's  bridal  array. 

The  plane-tops  at  play, 

Their  slim  plumes  and  shadows  and  white 

In  fanciful  pictures  unite. 

Fondling  the  grasses, 

And  brightening  the  mould, 
With  a  song  sweet  and  old 

The  light  water  passes. 

To  plaster  his  cell, 

Yellow-striped,  the  wild  bee 
Brings  his  jar  to  the  well: 

Bright  and  bustling  is  he. 

Can  ye  dream  what  could  be 
That  would  make  more  complete 
One  chord  or  note  sweet 

Of  this  earth 's  harmony  ? 
101 


The  sound,  now  and  then,  now  and  then, 
Of  the  stirring  of  leaves, 
Left  to  silence  again. 

In  the  silence  a  memory  weaves 

And  a  spider  as  well. 
Breaks  the  silence  the  scraping  of  leaves, 

Slowly  falling,  as  once  one  fell. 

CHIL-CHIL-HA! 

OUR  many  names  fo,r  thee  seem  all  to  bless, 

Fair  bird  to  poets  dear,  man's  neighbor  nigh, 
As  "rondinella,"  of  the  "tristi  lai," 

As  "  golondrina, "  "hirondelle,"  but  less 
Do  others  than  thy  Persian  name  caress, — 
Not  that  such  need  of  thee  has  Persia's  sky, 
Her  barren  hills  and  plains.  .Ah,  hear  that  cry! 
That  "Chil-Chil"  hear  from  winged  loveliness: 

No, — 'tis  because  thy  mother  gave  it  thee, — 
Because  thy  mother  calls  thee  by  it  still. 

With  "Chil-Chil-Ha!"  to  summer  o'er  the  sea 
She  led  thee  when  our  breeze  began  to  chill. 

How  sad  it  sounded  then !     But  now  she  calls 

Thee  back  again,  like  honey-drops  it  falls! 

NOCTURNE 

THERE  came,  upon  the  middle  point  of  night, 
A  vision  which  revisits  not  in  vain. 
Ye  hear,  where  yonder  reel  the  heat  and  light, 
102 


The  desert  weeds  hoarse  whisper  for  the  rain 
Whose  loud,  clear  footsteps  trample  out  the  noon? 
So  had  he  prayed  this  dream  might  come  again. 

He  was  not  sleeping,  since  beneath  the  moon 
He  knew  the  sands  far  gleaming,  and,  above, 
The  bare  bright  peaks.  Yet  round  about  him  soon 

Stood  oak-trees  and  he  heard  a  murmuring  dove. 
And  there  in  summer  robe  of  white  was  seen 
One  bending  o'er  a  babe  in  anxious  love. 

Down  in  the  fields,  a  partridge,  perched  serene, 
His  cry  repeated  from  a  topmost  rail. 
Quiet  as  his,  it  seemed,  her  heart  had  been 

Save  for  one  dread, — lest  prayer  should  not  avail 
Nor  tears  of  passionate  fatherhood,  but  quite 
Fruitless  his  nesting  with  a  mate  so  frail. 

To  this  had  followed  soon  a  keen  delight, 

The  thousand   cares  which   more   than   pleasures 

bless, 
Long  radiant  hours  of  wakefulness  by  night. 

But  the  scene  alters, — pallid  from  distress, 
Turning,    she    seeks — and    fears — his    thought    to 

know. 
Such  is  that  vision, — good  to  him  no  less 

(As  being  sacred,  blest)  for  such  its  woe, — 
Its  coming  like  the  rain's  wide  peacefulness 
Revisiting  the  desert, — even  so! 

103 


THE  ROSE  LAMENT 

FULL-BOSOMED  the  rose, 

But  now,  not  warm 
Nor  wrapped  in  blest  repose. 

A  dreadful  harm 
Has  come,  those  eyes  to  close 

Which  charmed  her  so : — 
Her  love,  her  nightingale 

Is  lying  low! 

Silent  the  light  leaves  lie 

Where  now  he  sleeps ; 
Singing  the  rills  go  by 

To  twilight  deeps; 
Sadly  the  breezes  sigh 

For,  ah!  her  breast 
Bleeds  as  his  own;  but  he 

Is  filled  with  rest. 

No  love  was  like  to  theirs 

The  gardens  through ; 
Like  her  no  flower  wears 

The  morning  dew; 
No  singer  sung  such  airs 

A  heart  to  move, — 
No,  not  unto  her  pine 

The  cooing  dove. 

The  leaves,  the  light  leaves  fall 

With  rustling  sweet; 
Ye  lilies,  proud  and  tall, 

Thou  primrose  neat, 
104 


Ye  know,  but  know  not  all, — 

Ye  could  not  know 
The  love  they  shared,  nor  feel 

Such  red  hearts'  woe. 


WHEREFORE? 

HERE  in  the  Persian  desert,  as  we  lie 
Couched  on  a  stony  bed  at  set  of  sun, 
Cool  and  at  ease,  the  day's  hard  journey  done, 

I  see  a  pallid  flower  atremble  nigh, 

Blue  and  as  fair  as  laughing  angel's  eye. 
It  hangs  a  dainty  earring  on  the  dun, 
Grizzled,  and  wrinkled  rock,  of  many  one 

That  with  a  titan  visage  threats  the  sky. 

Striving,  I  ponder  over  what  can  mean 

This    flower    that    followed    flower    in    such    a 

clime, — 

This  last  small  birth  to  solitude  and  time. 
Ah,  now  my  puzzled  spirit  grows  serene, 
For  clear  the  purpose  of  it  all  is  seen: 
To  lend  a  drop  of  honey  to  my  rhyme ! 


THE  RUSSIAN  WEDDING  FEAST 

I  SAW  a  painting  once  in  far  away 

Old  Russia, — picture  of  a  wedding  feast. 
I  saw  it  once,  but  of  details  the  least 

I  see  as  plainly  now ; — the  bright  array 
105 


Of  laughing  dames  and  other  guests  as  gay. 
About  the  groaning  board  the  mirth  increased 
As  one  more  viand, — some  hot,  smoking  beast, — 

Was  brought,  upborne  upon  a  massive  tray. 

But  not  for  guests  or  mirth  still  lives  the  scene, 
But  one,  white-satin-gowned,  from  these  aside, 

Near  to  the  bridegroom  standing, — ah,  Irene! — 
That  face  is  so  like  thine,  my  spirit's  bride: 

And  so  I  saw  thee  stand,  with  downcast  eyes, 

That  day  I  passed  the  gates  of  Paradise! 


INES 

THE  way,  perhaps,  was  long, — too  long  for  thee, 

Perhaps  for  woman.     If  now  turned  aside 

(Not  ere  that  thrilled  which  now,   perhaps,  has 

died), 

So  be  it,  and  my  blessing!     Silent  be, — 
Be    changed, — believe    me    changed.     An    ebbing 

tide 

Perhaps  away  has  swept  thee,  far  and  wide. 
But  word  of  blame,  for  one  in  days  of  old 

So  good  and  true, — this  surely  were  not  meet. 
Then,  like  a  queen,  thy  spirit  poured  its  gold; 

And,  after,  through  the  dark  I  heard  thy  feet 
On  the  long  path  unwearied  cadence  hold, 

Self-sure  and  strong  one,  though  thy  heart  so 
sweet. 

Now,  times  there  are  when  nothing  may  withstand 
Such  strength  as  wields  this  sorrow  which  doth 

pine, — 

106 


Not  even  faith,  wind-wrestling  tree,  like  thine, 
Far-searching  for  sweet  waters  in  the  sand! 

Yet  thou  to  whom  I  lisped  what  first  I  knew, 
Thou,  also,  wert  called  woman  (doubtless  few 

Like  thee  the  heavens  in  their  kindness  lend)  ; 
Thou  also,  gentle  one, — another,  too, 
And  yet  again  another, — ah,  my  friend, 
The  faithfulness  of  these  could  know  no  end! 


CHRISTINA 


'  Quando  verrai,  cor  mio, — 
Quando, — ma   quando? ' ' 


OF  thee  I  think,  Christina,  as  of  one 
Clear-cut  in  rigid  cameo, — delicate 
As  frailest  porcelain,  obdurate  as  fate, — 

As  one  who  willingly  were  changed  to  stone 

Or  in  some  prison-house  were  shut  alone 
For  innocence,  eluding  love  and  hate, — 
Would  'mid  wild  roses  sigh  that  she  must  wait 

A  death  that  would  not  end  all,  like  their  own. 

Sweet  Sappho  of  the  West,  I  think  of  thee 
Also,  as  fuller  of  love's  tenderness, 
More  learned  in  the  lore  of  love's  distress 
Than  that  fair  sister  by  the  azure  sea, — 
Thou  white-plumed  bird  of  God,  unnested,  free, 
Wistfully  singing  hymns  to  holiness! 


107 


EASE 

THY  great  skill,  Angelo,  has  taught  decay 
To  wear  a  dignity  to  pride  scarce  known, 
Where   sits   Lorenzo,    tranquil,    on   his   throne, 

Regal  and  strong,  an  empire  meet  to  sway: 

Those  two  strange  beings  from  the  tomb  away 
Weakness  have  banished,  mighty,  naked  shown, 
In  guise  robustious  taken  for  its  own 

By  death,  to  claim  a  place  within  our  day. 

We  vainly  question  Nature:  limbs  like  these 
She   does  not   show:   such   outlines  have  been 
brought 

From  where  thy  spirit  through  the  curtain  sees: — 
Sculptor,  and  seer,  and  poet,  thou  hast  wrought 

Shapes  from  whose  company  we  draw  such  ease 
As  young  Lorenzo,  musing  there,  has  caught. 


HOLINESS 

THE  candles  burn  by  Raffaello's  head; 
Upon  the  stair  his  step  is  heard  who  brings 
The  Pope's  last  blessing,  while  a  lady  clings 

To  hope  none  shares.     The  solemn  words  are  read 

Which  Mother  Church  assigns  for  one  near  dead. 
Now,  "La  Madonna,"— "La  Velata, "—flings 
Her  veil  aside  and,  with  low  whisperings 

And  close  caresses,  leans  above  the  bed. 

"Until  that  woman  shall  be  sent  away 
I  enter  not,"  the  holy  man  declares. 
They  tear  her  forth,  in  spite  of  tears  and  prayers 
108 


And  all  the  passing  one  has  power  to  say. 
No  baker's  daughter  she,  but  one  whose  face 
He  made, — made  him  eternal  by  its  grace. 


RITRATTO  D'INCOGNITO 

AND  now  upon  this  wall  to  hang  "unknown," 
A  face  so  fair,  such  vesture,  such  a  mien! 
The  famous  artist  let  his  best  be  seen 
Of  color,  drawing,  posture :  hands  alone 
Cost  many  an  anxious  day.     How  proudly  shown, 
Now  that  some  centuries  have  slid  between, 
This  masterpiece!     Yet  surely  must  have  been 
For  that  fair  sitter  glory  of  his  own. 

But  so  he  hangs  here  now.     "Well,  after  all, 
What  matter? — to  his  fellows  he  was  great, 

And  to  himself,  'tis  clear,  he  was  not  small. 

And  of  all  thoughts  that  teased  him  soon  or  late 
This  was  not  one :  that  it  could  be  his  fate 

To  hang  thus  marked  "unknown"  upon  a  wall! 

LA  PINETA 

I  LOVE  this  whisper  of  the  pines  which  saith : 
"My  needles  die  and  fall,  as  there  you  see, 
But  I  am  changeless";  and  I  love  to  flee, — 

But  what  is  this  the  marsh- wind  uttereth? 

"For  thee  I  gave  my  life, — no,  not  my  death: 
That  were  but  little,  but  I  gave  for  thee 
(I  pray  you,  set  me  down  and  let  me  be) 

My  days,  my  nights,  almost  my  every  breath! 

109 


"Yea,  gave  my  sleeping  and  my  waking  dreams, — 

All  that  I  was  or  had,  or  yet  might  own, — 
All, — all  was  given.    Now  the  great  gift  seems 
No    gain    for    thee, — for    me    but    loss    and 

wrong, — 

Seems  only  loss, — yet  how  should  I  have  known 
The  burden,  else,  of  any  deathless  song?" 


DOGWOOD 

Now  leads  me  back  the  winding  way 
To  where  with  joy,  on  firm,  sure  feet, 
I  ran  the  glorious  world  to  greet. 

The  dogwood  blooms,  a  snow  in  May, 

Lie  scattered  round,  as  then  they  lay; 
Swift   cedar-birds,  head  down,  repeat 
Their  chatter  in  this  shy  retreat, 

And  chipmunks  are,  as  then,  at  play. 

Yes,  girdling  sheaves  of  slight  avail, 

Here  nears  itself  the  looping  trail. 

Ah,  sunlit  trees,  new  strung  with  rain! 

And  yonder,  as  in  Sabbath  rest, 

The  blue  hills  lie  along  the  west, 

And  I, — I  am  a  boy  again ! 


MOTHER 

0  MOTHER,  for  thy  slaughtered  children  wild, 
Behold  how  peace,  with  lingering  and  mild, 

Spreads  o'er  their  hallowed  sleep  her  cloak  of 

green. 

Now,  always  brave,  be  bravely  reconciled. 
110 


Lift  up  thy  head  and  glorious  sorrow's  crown! 
Cast  from  long-folded  arms  that  sable  gown! 

Hast  thou  not  children's  children  by  thy  side 
Must  bear  worse   burdens   than   their   sires   laid 
down? 

Look  up  and  cherish  him,  the  later  son, 
Nor  deem  that  finished  which  is  scarce  begun. 
I  know,  I  know  too  well,  what  memories  rise, 
But  what  were  Greece  without  the  havoc  done  ? 

And  why  send  forth  the  father?     Was  it  not 
To  shield  the  son  ?    Is  this  so  soon  forgot  ? 

Or  thinkest  thou  not  worth  thy  care  could  be 
This  younger  scion  by  such  sire  begot? 

Look  up  and  cheer  him  also  to  the  field! 
Far  brighter  guerdon  to  his  arm  shall  yield 

Than  fired  the  heart  of  him  who  joyed  to  slay, 
And  homeward  came  upon  his  own  red  shield. 


SONG 

PLEASURE  in  the  rising  breaketh 
Like  the  glittering  billow's  crest; 

Riches  waste   or  robber   taketh; 
Glory's  thirst  knows  never  rest; 

And  the  worm  that  cankers  waketh 
Long  in  pallid  wisdom's  breast; 

Hurt  of  love  no  potion  healeth; — 
So  we  yearn  to  reach  a  door 
ill 


Star-embossed,  whose  gleam  revealeth 
Footprints  pointing  on  before, — 

Gain  a  height  whence  gladness  pealeth 
From  sweet  voices  stilled  of  yore. 


THE  STARRY  QUEST 

CANTO  I 

WHILE  in  the  south  all  dawns  yet  opened  drear, 
And  yet  war's  embers  flashed  autumnal  flame, 
Spoke  a  young  soldier:    "What  is  living  here 

Except  not  dying?" — One  to  whom  soon  came 
(No,  not  to  him,  for  first  must  end  one's  song), 
The  Indian  Summer  of  the  poet's  fame. 

Their  lives  so  living,  in  the  young  heart's  wrong, 
Drew  northward  to  the  City  sisters  two, 
And  after  came  a  youth,  work-hunting  long; 

But  for  such  stranger  little  seemed  to  do, — 
One  sister  seeking  health,  one  lending  aid, 
And  by  much  sewing  earning  dollars  few, — 

Of  evil  in  the  future  unafraid, 

Not  sighing  for  the  present,  poverty 

For  all  of  these  two  springs  of  comfort  made, — 

Not  richer  than  their  ruined  folk  to  be 
And  to  be  roused,  if  but  by  need  of  bread. 
The  boy  and  maids  apart,  this  youthful  three 
112 


Where  they  should  sleep  and  whence  they  might 

be  fed 
Oft  pondered.     Ah!  how  life's  few  years  might 

bless 
But  for  that  word  "apart,"  when  all  is  said, 

Guilty  as  parted  of  a  world's  distress! 

At  length  so  chanced  it  that  the  loneliest  one 

Saw  the  two  others,  one  in  feebleness 

Led  slowly  toward  a  bench  to  take  the  sun. 
And  all  the  passers-by  turned  back  to  see, — 
Women  and  men  alike, — as  he  had  done, 

Much  marveling  who  so  fair  a  maid  might  be, 
What  perfect  face  showed  over  such  poor  gown, — 
Perfect  in  charm,  but  for  simplicity 

Well  suited  to  the  garb  of  faded  brown, 
Which  black,  I  think,  in  better  days,  had  been. 
The  youth,  not  too  far  distant,  sat  him  down, 

And,  hidden  well,  but  with  a  vision  keen, 
By  the  heart  quickened,  eagerly  beheld, — 
As  yet  he  dared  to  gaze, — that  simple  scene. 

And  many  a  day  his  anxious  bosom  swelled, 
And  many  a  wakeful  night,  because  of  one 
From  health  by  poverty,  he  feared,  withheld. 

And  even  then  already  was  begun 
The  thought  that  stronger  arm  for  maid  so  frail 
Were  fitter  than  a  maid's  to  lean  upon. 
113 


Clearly  to  church  he  heard  the  bells  that  call, 
When  he  had  seen  these  sisters  go  to  pray; 
But  of  the  sermon  heard,  I  think,  not  all. 

There,  near  a  gothic  pillar,  where  the  day 
But  very  feebly  reached, — a  twilight  place, — 
Oft  would  he  kneel  to  see  them  pass  away. 

The  frail  one  beads  in  hand,  some  old  white  lace 

Adorning  wrist  and  neck  with  border  thin 

And  hiding  so  much  gown.     But  round  the  face 

For  him  so  burned  a  glory  from  within 
That  barely  could  its  chiseled  shape  be  seen. 
Then  cautious  questions  "who  and  whence?"— 
begin, 

And  soon  he  learns  the  sisters  fair  to  be 
Natives  of  that  same  region  whence  he  came, 
Allied,  like  him,  to  strenuous  rebeldry, 

In  that  great  strife  which  brought  a  brand   of 

shame 

To  those  who  could  have  turned  the  sword  aside, 
But  unto  some  a  fair,  unfading  name, 

Till  war,  like  single  combat,  shall  have  died. 
The  youth,  of  meagre  aspect,  ringlet  hair, 
(Chestnut  its  color),  calm  and  blue-grey  eyed, 

Looked  tenderly  on  all  things  sad  or  fair 
And  quietly  on  evils  touching  him. 
One  sister,  of  the  world  not  well  aware, 

114 


Worshiped  the  fairer  and,  with  outlook  dim, 
Would  come  and  go,  unto  the  other's  eyes 
Entrusting  all  things,  even  life  and  limb. 

Yet  in  all  household  business  was  she  wise, 
And  to  things  daily  needful  led  the  way. 
Upon  these  hearts  no  grip  of  jealousies; 

One  glowed  with  joy  to  hear  the  people  say: 
"How  charming!"  and  the  frailer,  guiding,  leant 
As  those  who  lean  with  love  untainted  may. 

Likewise  there  came,  upon  home  building  bent, 
A  worthy  widowed  dame,  in  wisdom  grey, 
In  children  rich.     To  her  these  sisters  went 

In  search  of  homelike  place  in  which  to  stay. 
And,  as  it  chanced,  that  youth  a  garret  small 
Nearby  had  hired  (he  hoped  therefor  to  pay), 

And  at  this  widow's  house  was  wont  to  call 
On  daughters, 'boarders,  cash-expecting  friends, 
Of  northwardly  migration,  one  and  all; — 

Some  puffed  with  pride  of  family,  such  as  tends 
Upward,  when  drawn  from  parent's  worthy  deed 
In  war, — even  war  may  lift  from  selfish  ends; 

And  some  whose  pride. was  feigned,  to.  fill  the  need 
Of  merit, — also  some  there  were  who  stood 
Discreetly  silent  of  the  past,  no  meed 

Esteeming  as  forgetfulness  so  good 
For  things  by  forbears  done  or  left  undone. 
All  this* the  wise   old  lady  understood, 
115 


Herself  discreetly  silent,  save  to  one, 

That  quiet  youth,  who  sat  and  seemed  to  hear, 

But  somewhat  freely  let  his  fancies  run. 

Here  first  fate  brought  the  fair  frail  sister  near; 
Here  first  she  looked  intently  on  his  face; 
Here  first  his  few  words  fell  upon  her  ear. 

There  is  not  any  power  in  time  or  place 
To  hinder  or  delay  when  deep  calls  deep. 
Seeing,  he  pitied  her  ill-looking  case; 

Her  soul  awoke,  which  long  had  lain  asleep, 

To  find  what  seemed  a  friend  well  known  of  old, — 

So  dear  a  friend  that  finding  made  her  weep. 

Little  saw  he,  for  he  had  grown  less  bold 
To  gaze  on  that  which  most  he  wished  to  see. 
And  other  wishes,  new  and  manifold, 

Were  mixed  with  fear  that  no  such  joy  could  be 
As  giving  welcome  aid  to  one  so  fair. 
Alas! — alas!  he  pondered,  who  was  he, 

And  what  was  he,  so  high  a  hope  to  dare  ? 
The  youth  thus  doubted;  women  do  not  so. 
And  she  had  grown,  in  other  scenes,  aware 

How  strong  her  charms.    Yet  little  did  she  know 
How  pure  a  well  of  feeling  had  been  stirred, 
Which  toward  her  own  clear  being  turned  to  flow. 
Love  she  had  known, — it  spoke  a  strange  new  word. 
116 


Not  yet  quite  thirty  summers  o'er  the  frame, 
And  o'er  the  heart,  and  o'er  the  well-stored  mind, 
Had  passed  for  that  fair  sister,  when  there  came, 

Among  the  threads  the  busy  fates  unwind, 
A  golden  one, — more  summers  than  had  flown 
Above  that  youth  of  furtive  looks  and  kind, — 

Looks  now  of  awe, — unlike  what  she  had  known 
From  ardent  suitors  many.     These  had  seen 
Her  outward  seeming;  seeing  this  alone, 

They  yielded  to  the  power,  which  makes  a  queen 
Of  whoso  wields  it.    Wielding  this  had  been 
Among  life's  pleasures  ever  the  most  keen. 

Her  former  wooers  lacked  the  skill  to  stir 

The  inner  woman,  who  apart  was  set, 

Weighing  their  moods  and  motives  as  they  were. 

Now  looked  she  up  to  one  as  never  yet 
To  any, — not  from  weakness  of  the  flesh 
And  humbled  spirit, — in  this  youth  she  met 

The  other  part  of  being;  all  afresh 

Was  born,  as  moth  from  darksome  chrysalis, 

Enkindled  as  a  flower  beneath  the  kiss 

Of  April  morning  and  as  dewy  sweet, — 

Yea,  tender  as  a  newmade  mother  is; 

For  in  such  moments  maid  and  mother  meet. 

117 


CANTO  II 

Some  years;  and  then  a  presence,  dimly  shown, 
Beckoned  this  youth,  and,  quite  without  his  aid, 
Swiftly  he  moved.     Then  words  that  seemed  his 
own, 

Half  willed  by  him,  were  spoken:  "Unafraid, 
From  long  familiar  scenes  I  take  my  way, 
But  whom  do  I  now  follow,  mystic  maid, 

"And  shall  I  ever  back  return  or  stay?" 
When  to  a  thick  mist-curtain  drew  they  near 
He  strove  his  further  going  to  delay. 

"I'll  pass  no  further!"  with  some  little  fear 
These  words  were  spoken;  but  he  moved  along, 
And  soon,  beyond  the  curtain,  saw  appear 

A  meadow  where  of  birds  he  heard  such  song 
As  in  the  spring,  to  one  new-freed  from  care, 
Sound  their  first  tunings.    "Thou  hast  known  me 
long 

"And  better  than  thy  neighbors."    "Lady  fair, 
For,  tho '  scarce  visible,  I  well  discern 
Thy  loveliness,  I  pray  thy  name  declare." 

"That  one  am  I  the  poet  sad  and  stern 
Did  worshipfully  sing."    With  beatings  fast 
To  see  her  face  how  then  his  heart  did  yearn ! 

But  through  his  blood  soon  other  accents  passed, — 
A  voice  that  said:  "At  last,"  and  silent  grew; 
And  he  in  turn:  "At  last!— at  last!— at  last!" 
118 


He  craved  to  bring  the  speaker  into  view, 

But  now  could  neither  see.     And,  much  in  dread 

No  more  to  hear,  he  tried  what  one  might  do 

To  gain  the  better  will  of  her  who  led, — 
"Full  many  a  time  of  how  he  fared  through  Hell 
And  through  those  other  regions  have  I  read. 

But  now,  kind  Lady,  I  would  have  thee  tell 
If  thou  didst  love  the  poet  on  that  sphere 
Whence  we  have  come  and  that  which  there  be 
fell." 

"In  life,  too,  we  are  spirits,  as  now  here, — 

A   truth    the    Christian    times   have   made    more 

plain, ' ' — 
"Where  bide  ye  now  together, — is  it  near 

"To  earth,  or  far  o'er  some  ethereal  main?" 
"For  one  world  were  we  formed, — in  others  dwell, 
'Tis  said,  strange  races ;  but  for  us  'twere  vain 

"To  be  ourselves  and  grow  insensible 

To  what  we  know  within  our  primal  home, 

To  what  is  part  of  us,  inwoven  well- 

' '  Into  our  being.     'Neath  yon  starry  dome 
Brother  and  sister,  friend  with  dearest  friend, 
So  far  as  I  have  learned,  shall  rest  and  roam; 

"Here  love  to  fuller  harmonies  ascend; 
Here  scenes  of  past  delight  be  visited, 
In  that  same  world,  whose  beauty  without  end 
119 


"In  fragments  thou  hast  known."    "Thus  now," 

he  said, 

"But  after  death  at  once  all  clearly  seen." 
"Indeed,  not  so, — to  vision  of  the  dead 

"  The  whole  is  not  revealed.    With  sight  more  keen, 

With  greater  zest  we  look;  but  Paradise, 

With  naught  to  hope,  could  not  for  us  have  been." 

Then  thinking  he  could  profit  by  surprise, 
Quickly  he  asked  if  he  might  see  the  one 
Whose   voice   but   now   had   blessed   him.    "Did 
thine  eyes 

"Behold  her  ever,  or  the  form  alone 
Which  shut  her  from  thee  ? "    "  Even  there  as  here 
With   sound   she   touched   me, — with   an   angel's 
tone." 

"I  say  not  thou  shalt  gain  a  view  more  clear 
Or  thou  shalt  not."    "Already  have  been  mine 
Two  great  rewards, — if  merit  may  appear 

' '  In  patient  hope,  in  love, — perhaps  like  thine : 
To  hear  her  voice  and  know  that  mine  she  heard. ' ' 
Then  spoke  again  that  other  (like  strong  wine 

Ran  through  his  being  every  smallest  word) : 
"When  none  believed  me  there,  for  I  had  died, 
And  not  a  finger-tip  or  eyelid  stirred, 

"He  lingered  in  the  room  and  stood  beside 
And  murmured:  'In  her  bridals  lying  there,  — 
Fine  robes  I  bought,  tho  poor,  to  see  her  pride 

120 


"  'When  once,  at  least,  fit  raiment  she  might  wear; 
By  my  command  so  shrouded.  .  .  .  Whisperings 
Along  the  aisle;  and  how  the  people  stare! 

"  'Upon  my  trembling  arm  her  fingers  cling, 
Trembling,  and  from  her  cheek  the  rose  has  fled, 
As  still  the  wonder  grows. — And  that  small  ring 

"  'Which  seemed  to  wed  us  (here  we  are  not  wed, 
But  are  betrothed)  that,  too,  remains  with  her.' 
Then  divers  idle  things  he,  musing,  said 

"Of  arts  and  hopes  in  Egypt's  night  that  were, — 
Of  spirit, — how  a  spark  from  formless  glue 
Fashions  the  eagle's  plume,  the  tiger's  fur, 

"Of  how  my  being  from  its  cover  drew: — 
The  praying  lips,  when  all  grew  still  beside, 
Obedient  to  my  will — 'A  sign  most  true 

"  'That  she  passed  forth  unchanged,  whose  form 

had  died. ' 
Those  lips, — sweet  keys  whereon  even  yet  could 

play 
The  lingering  player!     Ah,  they  will  deride 

"When  I  shall  yearn  to  tell  of  her  and  say 
How  rare, — how  more  than  magical  she  was : 
'Truly  the  heart  deceives  thee, — 'tis  its  way. 

"  'Like  many  another  was  thy  bride.'     Alas! 
'Like  many  another  was  that  form, — that  face!' 
But,  looking  in  my  love  as  in  a  glass, 
121 


' '  '  Will  no  one  see, — ah  me ! — will  no  one  trace 

A  far,  faint,  feeble  image  of  that  soul?' 

Yet  some  will  say  at  least:  'In  yon  dark  space 

"  'A  mighty  splendor  swims, — yea,  such  control 
Tells  of  the  power  of  such  within  the  sky ! ' 
And  then  a  shadow  o'er  my  pleasure  stole; — 

"I  did  him  wrong.     'He  turns  to  leave,'  thought  I. 
I  heard  his  footsteps,  then  the  rustling  stir 
Of  heavy  curtains.     He  again  drew  nigh. 

' '  Shone  o  'er  my  face  and  breast  the  moon — like 

day;— 

I  fear  I  seemed  more  beautiful,  so  long 
He  lingered, — then  the  couch  whereon  I  lay 

"Was  shaken  with  his  sobs.    I  did  him  wrong. 
Alas,  poor  heart !  that  yet  must  bear  delay. ' ' 


CANTO  m 

Long  silent  he  remained,  remembering, 

Until  a  fear  came  on  him  suddenly, 

Thinking  them  gone,  but  still  to  hope  would  cling 

And  spoke  again,  in  haste  and  stumblingly: 
"Thy  poet's  love,  dear  Lady,  does  but  seem 
A  distant  worship, — he  appears  to  be 

"As  one  who  of  thine  eyes  a  fleeting  gleam 
Catches,  when  passing  thee  upon  the  way, 
Scarce  spoken  to,  beside  the  Arno's  stream, 
122 


"Or  at  some  wedding  feast,  where  thou  art  gay 
And  he,  by  thee  unheeded,  gazing, — this, — 
No  more  but  such  as  this  he  seems  to  say. 

"Tell  me,  can  this  be  all? — no  lingering  kiss 
Upon  thy  fingers, — not  one  whispered  word 
Barbed  as  with  fire  and  plumed  with  ecstasies?" 

She  answered :     "To  remember  now  has  stirred 

A  rare  delight  to  heavenly  joy  not  wed. 

Ah,  me! — my  name,  near  Arno's  wave,  I  heard, 

"Where  bowed  I,  gathering  flowers.    I  would  have 

fled, 

But  something  of  command  was  in  the  voice, 
Though  reverent,  and  most  reverently  he  said: 

"  'I  pray  thee  stay  awhile.'     I  had  no  choice, 
For  faint  were  grown  my  knees.     He  called  my 

name. 
Not  knowing  whether  I  should  dare  rejoice 

"I  felt  that  nearer  unto  me  he  came, 
Where  tremblingly  I  bowed,  in  act  to  cull 
Another  flower, — then  saw  I,  like  a  flame 

"The  flashing  of  his  eyes, — so  wonderful! 
And  after  knew  outstretched  toward  me  a  hand, 
Beseechingly;  and  then  my  mind  grew  dull, 

"So  that  but  dimly  I  could  understand. 
Then  he  enfolded  me,  without  consent, 
And  yet  without  an  effort  to  withstand. 
123 


"What  could  I,  then?     So  tenderly  be  bent, 

So  kind  he  seemed, — so  manly,  true,  and  strong! 

Yes,  many  a  secret  hour  together  spent 

' '  Was  all  the  Heaven  I  wished. ' ' — ' '  And,  from  his 

song, 

I  know  'twas  all  he  wished." — "Alas!  not  so! 
He  wandered  from  me  and  with  grievous  wrong 

' '  Soiled  his  bright  soul, — then  for  a  friar  would  go, 
Repenting  deeply.     Many  a  lonely  prayer 
I  sent  to  Heaven,  and  much  bitter  woe 

"I  tasted,  ere  once  more  he  came  to  share 

Such  scenes.     The  hours  together  passed  again 

He  would  have  written  of,  but  did  not  dare, 

"The  afterthought  so  filled  him  with  its  pain. 
And  then  he  shunned  me, — sinned, — repented  sore, 
Striving  against  a  sensuous  bent  in  vain; 

"Then,  driven  by  wild  repentance  as  before, 
He  came  and  bade  a  silent,  sad  farewell, 
And  for  a  time  a  friar's  robe  he  wore. 

"Soon  grew  I  pale, — a  cruel  blighting  fell 

Upon  my  form  and  wasted  it  away. 

He  went  to  be  a  friar.     They  loved  me  well, 

"My  parents, — strove  in  life  to  make  me  stay, 
Caused  me  to  wed,  and  I  resisted  not, — 
Alike  to  me  the  answer,  yea  or  nay, 
124 


"Save  for  the  solace  to  those  loved  ones  brought, 
To  whom  my  death  so  soon  must  sorrow  bring, — 
Bring  soon  enough  of  sorrow,  as  I  thought." 

She  ceased,  and  he  was  silent,  sorrowing. 
"As  soon  as  he  had  heard  that  I  was  wed, 
Of  such  remorse  he  felt  the  cruel  sting 

' '  That  long  he  lingered  ill  upon  his  bed, 
Cursing  the  friars  and  the  Church  as  well, 
The  faith, — even  his  Creator,  it  was  said. 

"He  would  have  died,  but  that  it  so  befell 
A  gentle  friend,  one  Guido,  medicine" — 
She  paused  again ;  and  he :  "I  pray  thee  tell 

"For  such  an  ill  what  herb  or  balm  or  wine? 
This  for  a  reason  I  should  gladly  learn." 
"The  poet  still  would  speak  that  name  of  mine 

"He  gives  me,  writing, — he  would  toss  and  turn, 
Recalling  ever  his  forsaken  bride, 
Reproaching  her  for  doubting  his  return. 

"How  pale  I  found  him,  when  I  knelt  beside! 
And  how  he  stared  and  pressed  against  his  eyes 
Poor  bony  fingers,  thinking  he  had  died 

"Or  else  been  cheated  by  such  shows  as  rise 
In  fever-madness.    But  I  touched  his  brow," — 
Again  she  would  have  ended,  with  deep  sighs, 
125 


But  he  besought  her  to  go  on.     "From  now 

His  health  grew  stronger;  with  sweet  hopes  I  fed 

Of  happier  love  to  be, — I  said  not  how, 

"Nor  when,  nor  where.     And,  back  to  health  so 

led, 

How  beautiful  became  his  joyous  face, 
How  like  a  bridegroom  seemed  he,  newly  wed! 

'  rVast  grew,  meanwhile,  my  need  of  heavenly  grace 
For  the  last  time  to  look  upon  that  sight 
And  on  the  path  to  joy  my  steps  retrace." 

"Ah,  now,  it  seems,  I  understand  aright 
What  in  three  reasons  given  he  hides  away, 
Wherefore  he  will  not  of  thy  'parting'  write; 

"Two  reasons  vain  to  lead  men's  thoughts  astray, 
And  then  this  third  one :  '  It  were  shame  should  1 
That  which  must  clearly  seem  self-praising  say.' 

' '  '  She  died  for  love  of  me, ' — who  will  deny 

This  would  be  called  self-praise,  however  meant  ? ' ' 

"When  I  was  parting,  very  secretly 

"This  word  by  that  same  gentle  friend  I  sent: 
'In  thee  I  lived, — for  want  of  thee  have  died, — 
Live  thou,  and  know  it  is  my  firm  intent 

Always  to  linger  near  thee  and  to  guide ! '  ' 
"And  he  lived  on  and  builded  there  below 
A  shrine  to  which  no  dream,  nor  aught  beside, 
126 


"Can  be  compared  for  splendor."    "Even  so! 
Of  me  alone  his  song, — by  Hell's  wild  glare 
He  strove  contrasting  loveliness  to  show; 

"For  him  my  presence  hovers  everywhere 
The  poets  wander,  growing  more  divine, 
At  length  so  glorious  made  that  he  can  dare 

"With  Rachel,  near  the  Virgin,  to  assign 
A  place  for  it  among  the  highest  there." 
"Ah,  me,"  her  comrade  sighed,  "that  heart  of 

thine 
No  more  is  waiting! — his  no  longer  waits!" 


CANTO  IV 

' '  Fair  Lady,  tell  me  somewhat  of  that  child 

By  Dante  well-beloved,  when  thou  had'st  died." 

"That  little  girl  his  widowed  heart  beguiled 

"With  pity  for  a  man  who  wandered  wide 
And  could  not  see  his  native  land  again. 
With  gentle  hand,  at  times,  his  tears  she  dried. 

"Ye  seek  her  story  from  his  pen  in  vain; — 
Perhaps  he  feared  that  I  should  deem  the  less 
His  love  for  me,  divided  thus  in  twain : — 

"My  heart  was  not  so  natured.     Blessedness 
It  gave  to  him  to  see  in  her  young  eyes, — 
Or  think  he  saw,  kind  looks  such  love  express 
127 


"As  those  that  watched  the  gates  of  Paradise: 
His  eyes  to  her  as  one's  from  Heaven  shone, 
A  banished  angel's,  pining  for  the  skies. — 

"Her  like  I  know,"  the  youth,  in  eager  tone, 
Not  troubled  now  to  think  that  other  heard, 
"Her  like  I  knew,  ere  I  was  left  so  lone. 

"Ah,  Ruth,  what  memories  of  thee  are  stirred, 
Whose    love    so    mingled    with    thy    thoughts    of 

Heaven 
I  seemed  of  Him  a  shadow  dim  and  blurred 

"Who  leads  us,  if  we  will,  or  will  not,  even, 
And  those  not  least  who  think  themselves  have 

led; 
(Thine  idol- worship  may  it  be  forgiven!) 

"And  thou  to  me  a  pious  nun,  who  fled 
The  sisterhood,  or  was  by  Heaven  assigned, 
With  kind,  calm  upward  looks,  well-comforted, 

"To  comfort  one  alone  of  all  mankind. 

And  so  it  was  that,  knowing  this  thy  dream, 

To  those  calm  looks  some  better  right  to  find, 

"I  strove  to  be  more  like  what  thus  did  seem; 
But  other  eyes  than  thine  another  sight 
Beholding, — but  no  matter !    When  the  gleam 

' '  Of  dawn  awakes  thee,  and  again,  at  night, 
Knelt  by  thy  lonely  pillow,  in  thy  prayer 
Must  yet  remain  some  tremors  of  delight, 
128 


"Breathing  my  name  and  then  thine  own,  more 

fair; 

And  I,  'mid  ruins  of  a  hope  deferred, 
At  times  I,  too,  some  little  solace  share, 

"  (No,  not  a  hope, — too  strong,  alas,  that  word!) — 
At  times  yet  dream  I  hold  against  my  breast, 
Stilled  all  its  throbbing,  like  a  rescued  bird, — 

"Still  as  a  statue,  silent,  full  of  rest, 

A  form  set  free  from  every  change  and  fear; 

Again  in  mine  a  gentle  hand  is  pressed; 

"I  feel  near  mine  a  heart  that  should  be  near; 
I  shut  within  wet  eyes,  with  kisses  long, 
A  love  I  cannot  bear, — it  is  too  strong!" 


These  words  into  the  youth's  conception  came 
And  slowly  did  he  voice  them,  half  aware 
That  he  was  speaking :  ' '  Ought  I  be  to  blame 

' '  Or  unf orgiven,  should  again  I  dare 

To  hope,  if  not  to  end  the  dark  eclipse 

Which  hides  the  one  who  waiteth  for  me  there, 

"At  least  to  touch  again  her  fingertips 
Or  press  her  white  robe  with  a  pious  kiss? 
(Ah,  no !     I  could  not  wish  for  lips  on  lips, 

"Unworthy  as  I  am!)."    Much  more  than  this 
He  poured  into  that  kindly  lady's  ear 
Of  pleading  words,  which  went  not  all  amiss. 
129 


She   answered   him:  "Kneel    down.      She   sitteth 

near 

And  thou  shalt  hear  her  heart  against  thy  cheek, 
As  first,  she  tells  me,  in  a  by-gone  year 

"Thou  thus  didst  kneeling  hear  it.     Kneel,  and 

seek 

No  further  blessing  now."     Then,  for  a  space, 
He  dwelt  in  ecstasy,  nor  dared  to  speak 

Until  his  strong  desire  to  see  her  face 

0  'ercame  him  quite.    ' '  Ah,  gentle  friend  and  kind, 

Let  now  thy  worth  and  hers  my  sins  efface, 

"And  in  my  chastened  love  a  reason  find 
To  grant  this  other  boon."     "I,  also,  ask," 
The  other  said,  "in  fear  lest,  left  behind 

"So  long,  he  may,  if  I  should  not  unmask, 
Forget  my  semblance  and  his  love  grow  cold, — 
He  yet  is  only  earthly, — it  must  task 

"An  earthly  power  the  fading  lines  to  hold." 
"But  think  now  further:  if  his  stay  be  long 
Yonder,  is  not  it  merciful  that  old 

"And    dim    should    grow    thine    image    and    less 

strong 

The  conscious  memory  of  the  lost  Irene? 
If,  in  the  pauses  of  some  tender  song, 

"He  drop  a  tear,  recalling  what  has  been, — 
If,  looking  on  the  still,  moonlighted  grass, 
He  sighs  as  when  his  head,  thy  hands  between, 

130 


"Lay  thus  against  thy  breast, — and  if,  alas! 
He  knows  not  why,  but  fresh  un-mothered  seems 
The  child  within  him,  as  the  slow  years  pass, 

"Is  it  not  enough?  He  sees  thee  oft  in  dreams, 
No  doubt,  too  clearly!"  Thus  he  answered  her: 
"With  what  old  hours  my  inner  vision  teems, 

"Hearing  thy  words!     I  pray  thy  gift  defer! 
Now  dreading  what  I  sought.     Yet  let  me  know 
If  I  have  kept  her  features  as  they  were 

"And  if  now  changed  from  those  I  knew  below." 
Then  he  described  the  wondrous  lines  and  mien 
And  ended  with, — "each  lip  a  perfect  bow." 

"If  thus  by  thee  in  other  places  seen, 

So  is  she  here, — the  same,  yet  not  the  same, 

Unearthly  now,  though  not  from  blemish  clean. 

"But  come  now,  brother.     Thou  has  heard  the 

name 

Of  Guido, — his  who  served  me  as  a  friend. 
Still  seeks  he,  as  below,  the  poet's  fame, — 

"So  bids  us  come,  to  see  and  hear  and  mend 
A  Greek-style  drama  'Whiter  made  than  Snow.'  ' 
Thus  Beatrice,  seeking  thus  to  end 
The  young  man's  yearning,  adding:  "Let  us  go." 


"What  thinkest  of  my  drama?" — This  from  one 
In  tones  of  eager  questioning.     But  the  youth 
Was  lost  in  thought  before  the  play  was  done 
131 


At  wars  there  prophesied.    "Can  it  be  truth 
That  war  will  not  now  finish  ?    In  this  day 
Called  modern,  will  men  multiply  the  ruth 

"Of  savage  forbears  and  the  beasts  of  prey? 
I  cannot  this  believe  unless  I  see." 
"Ah,  even  now,  alas,  from  far  away 

"There  comes  the  sound  of  combat.  Not  as  we 
They  slaughter  now, — a  hundred  thousand  fall, 
Mowed  bleeding  down  by  hideous  enginery." 

These  words  of  Guido  that  young  heart  appall 
But  leave  still  doubting.     Beatrice  spake: 
"Do  thou,  Irene,  go  show  to  him, — not  all, 

"Nor  half  the  truth,  but  gently  to  him  break 
Some  little  of  the  madness  that  is  rife." 
And  soon  a  desert,  level  as  a  lake, 

Outspread,  where  moonlight  lay  serene  and  life 

Did  seem  forever  into  quiet  passed. 

Then,  as  he  marveled,  seeing  naught  of  strife, 

The  lady's  figure  almost  showed  at  last, — 
Or  so  it  seemed, — and  seemed  it  that  she  wept 
And  strove  to  speak,  but  grief  her  tongue  held 
fast. 

She  pointed  toward  a  little  flower  that  slept 
In  coverlet  of  moonbeams  wrapt;  and  there 
Lay  still  and  white  (whereon  he  nearly  stept) 

132 


A  young  fair  face,  enriched  with  golden  hair. 
0  'er  many  like  they  passed,  and  then  beheld 
A  meagre  lion  leave  his  rocky  lair 

Beneath  a  hill  of  rock,  whereon  was  spelled, 
'Neath  bas-reliefs  of  slaves  and  haughty  kings 
And  prostrate  kings,  their  locks  by  captors  held 

"To-day  and  yesterday — to-morrow  brings" — 
But  here  the  rock  was  broken. 


Then  there  swept 

An  angel  past  them,  swift  upon  the  wing, 
And  then  another,  slowlier,  who  wept. 

And  looking  down,  they  saw  of  tears  the  spring, — 
They  saw  and  heard.     Far  flash  upon  the  night 
The  flames  of  battle.    Loud  the  engines  sing 

The  song  in  which  the  carrion  birds  delight: 

A  city  burning  on  the  left  upcurled 

In  smoke  and  sparkles,  and  upon  the  right 

Each  moment  ranks  of  luckless  men  were  hurled 
To  Hades.     As  the  cave-men  made  debate 
So  now  in  argument  was  met  the  world. 

Savage  on  savage  once  again  his  hate 
Unblushingly  did  vomit  as  of  old 
Beneath  the  still,  sweet  stars. 


133 


CANTO  V 

They  heard  the  call  of  Beatrice  near, 

And,  as  they  reached  her  saw,  not  her  alone, 

But  one  whose  longed-for  presence  filled  with  fear 

The  youth,  who  whispered  in  a  trembling  tone : 
"Not  yet! — more  slowly!  Ah,  I  do  not  dare 
To  come  near  one  who  sits  upon  the  throne, 

"The  prince  of  poets."  While  he  faltered  there, 
A  cheerful  voice  and  kind  pronounced  his  name, — 
'Twas  Dante's — not  the  wanderer's  whose  stare 

Tells  ever  of  Caina's  smoke  and  flame, 
But  that  of  him  Giotto  limned, — as  yet 
(And  now  to  be  forever-more  the  same) 

Unparted  from  the  blessed  one  he  met 

By  Arno's  wave.     The  voice  seemed  nowise  new: 

"My  Bice  told  me  how  thy  heart  was  set 

"To  learn  if  me  she  loved,  which  not  a  few 
Have  doubted  (so  new-comers  say).     As  here 
'Twould  pain  me,  as  on  earth  it  wont  to  do, 

"Some  things  to  speak  of,  that  she  made  all  clear, 
Spared  me,  my  friend,  and  thee  to  see  one  weep 
Whom  now  thou  gazest  on  with  awe  and  fear." 

Then  praise  upon  his  lady  did  he  heap. 
So  kind  the  poet  that  it  was  not  long 
Ere  one  made  calmer,  found  it  hard  to  keep 
134 


From  asking  questions,  as :  "  Can  it  be  wrong 
To  wage  defensive  war  ? "    "  Ah,  knowest  thou  not 
How  seldom  will  a  man,  enraged  and  strong, 

"Hurl  blows  upon  another  whom  he  sought 
And  unresisting  finds,  though  unafraid? 
Not  coward  fear  the  gentle  master  taught, 

"But  courage  suited  to  that  lofty  grade 
Toward  which  he  wishes  all  mankind  to  strain. 
I  marvel  now  to  think  what  joy  it  made 

"To  slay  my  fellow  beings."     "But  in  vain, 
It  seems,  the  master's  teaching."     "Nay,  not  so, 
The  upward  striving  way,  through  grief  and  pain 

"Is  best, — it  were  not  well  no  change  to  know 
From  worse  to  better,  as  the  days  go  by. 
Through  fear  and  strife  and  even  crime  we  grow: 

"In  rest  and  peace  to  linger  is  to  die." 
"Five  poets  in  the  days  thy  day  before 
Thou -numberest,  poet.  Pray  thee,  tell  me  why 

"So  few  are  poets  and  so  many  more 

Great  souls  have  other  powers?"     "Even  here 

I  know  not  how,  or  whence,  or  through  what  door 

"A  vision  visits  me.     I  find  it  near, 
Perhaps  a  wondrous  one  that  makes  me  quail, 
Filled  with  humility  and  doubt  and  fear, 
135 


"Like  Mary  when  the  angel  came  to  hail 

And  promise  greater  things.     So,  therefore,  this 

Which  thou  demandest — why  the  poets  fail? — 

"How  should  I  tell  thee? — why  earth's  woe  and 

bliss 

Through  ages  yield  an  inarticulate  cry? 
It  is  a  question  far  more  dark,  I  wis, 

"Because  so  little  bars  from  rivalry, — 
Not  foreign  speech, — that  for  no  poem  take 
Which  may  not  moult  its  plumes  and  keep  the  sky. 

' '  I,  too,  had  failed  you  if  a  sad  mistake 
Had  stood.  Ah,  me!  one  morn  beside  a  bay 
I  plucked  an  ivy  leaf  for  poet's  sake 

"Who  sought  the  old,  but  wandered  from  the  way 
And  stumbled  on  the  new,  the  dimly  shown, — 
The  hardly  come  as  yet.    'Ah,  well  a  day!' 

"He  sighed,  of  Homer  thinking,  him  alone. 
'Alas!     How  far  mine  leaves  the  Master's  song!' 
And  would,  in  his  despair,  have  burned  his  own. 

"He  scorned  his  tale  of  Dido  and  her  wrong,— 

Her  sacrifice,  not  knowing  he  had  sung, 

Not  for  walled  towns  of  what  to  these  belong, — 

"Not  joy  to  raise  at  spoil  from  corpses  wrung, 
But  to  an  ear  unwakened  yet  to  hear ' ' — 
The  youth,  forgetting  shame,  these  words  outflung : 
136 


"Sung  to  the  deep  heart  of  a  distant  world, 
A  chaunt  caught  up  again  in  tones  more  clear 
By  one  who  sang  of  Hell's  two  lovers  whirled 

"Together — still   together, — nor   could  bear 
To  part  them  for  a  moment — even  there ! " 


CANTO    VI 

The  poet  of  the  youth  inquiry  made 

If  yet  his  bones  to  Florence  had  been  sent 

Or  left  in  exile,  where  they  down  were  laid. 

"Sorely,  it  seems,  the  Florentines  repent," 

The  young  man  answered.    ' '  Often  have  they  tried 

To  bring  the  sister  city  to  relent 

"Which  latest  harbored  thee, — forsaking  pride, 
Have  humbly,  eloquently,  begged  and  chidden. 
The  wrath  of  dreaded  power  by  monks  defied, 

"A  century  and  more  by  these  were  hidden 
The  sacred  relics,  when  by  pope's  decree 
Their  giving  up  to  Florence  had  been  bidden. 

"But,  poet,  what  can  matter  now  to  thee 

The  resting-place  of  some  few  shreds  of  dust, — 

Now  thou  hast  put  on  immortality?" 

"Long  exiled  while  I  lived,  by  laws  unjust, 
From  city  unto  city  doomed  to  roam, 
Even  here  I  have  not  lost  the  hope  and  trust 
137 


"That,  soon  or  late,  at  last  the  day  will  come 
When  whatso  little  may  of  me  remain 
Will  rest  in  Florence,  my  beloved  home. 

"But  still  I  question  those  who  come  in  vain." 
Then  silence, — then  ere  long,  like  drifting  haze 
Slowly  toward  them  drew  along  the  plain 

White  spirits,  opening  wride  eyes  of  amaze, 
Distincter  growing.     Endless  seemed  the  throng. 
Upon  the  foremost  Dante  fixed  his  gaze 

And :  ' '  Who  are  ye  ?    I  think  I  am  not  wrong 
In  saying  ye  are  newly  from  the  war 
Which  rages  yonder."    "I,  myself,  belong 

"Unto  the  Guard  Imperial.     See  this  star!" 
He  pointed  to  his  breast  as  though  he  deemed 
He  wore  one  there.     "I  know  not  where  we  are, 

But  I  must  hasten  to  the  front."    He  dreamed 
Of  facing  death,  a  gate  already  passed. 
Still  in  his  eye  heroic  courage  beamed. 

"On!  On!"  he  shouted,  "Victory  at  last!" 
The  poet  stopped  him  with  a  look  austere, 
And  questioned:    "Whither,  my  new  friend,   so 
fast?" 

"To  Paris!  Paris!  do  not  hold  me  here!" 
"Thy  going  now  must  have  another  end. 
Awake! — Awake!     A  soldier  without  fear, 
138 


"Thy  part,  as  mine  at  Campaldino,  friend, 
Was  acted  well,  I  know."  Then  slowly  fell 
The  earthliness,  and  slowlier  did  mend 

The  power  of  vision,  till  were  visible 

The  flowery  meads  and  white-robed  ones  that  grace, 

Reclining  there,  the  banks  of  asphodel. 

Two  spirits,  arm  in  arm,  drew  near  apace 
From  these,  whom  Dante  greeted  with  a  smile, 
Seeing  contentment  glowing  in  each  face. 

They  lingered  near  but  for  a  little  while, 

Then  passed  beyond.     The  knowledge  who  were 

these 
The  youth  long  sought  from  others  to  beguile 

And  from  Irene  at  last  the  truth  did  tease : 
"Those  two  are  lovers  now  within  the  sky 
Who  others  yonder  strove  in  vain  to  please, 

"So  wide  apart  from  theirs  their,  natures  lie, 
Though  excellent,  in  their  own  ways,  they  were. 
The  poet's  Gemma  one  (now  knowest  thou  why 

' '  We  halted  in  our  speech  when  asked  of  her) , 
The  other  he  who  called  our  Bice  bride." 
With  shame  the  young  man's  being  was  astir, 

But  soon  she  calmed  him :  ' '  After  we  have  died 
Each  knows  the  mate  for  each.    But  there  below, 
Alas!  not  known,  or  walls  of  stone  divide, 
139 


''Or  Heaven  of  one  enamored  soon  doth  grow." 
Then  neared  two  others,  having  eyes  for  none 
But  for  each  other,  loitering  and  slow, 

The  one  of  manly  beauty  and  the  one 
Fair  as  an  angel,  tremulous  and  pale, 
Remembrance  in  her  air  and  in  the  tone 

With   which  she  named  "Paolo," — nor   did   fail 
The  watching  youth  to  know  them.    With  a  cry 
He  strove  to  stop  them,  but  to  no  avail. 

Then  passed  Giotto  and  Casella  by: 
And  after  these  two  women  slowly  came, 
And  Irene  whispered  as  they  drew  more  nigh : 

"Behold  her  coming  now  whose  gentle  name 
Thou  givest  one  thou  lovest, — what  kind  eyes! 
With  her  is  Rachel,  not  so  slight  of  frame, 

More  queenly  poised  her  head,  more  matron-wise 
Her  movements."    "Dreamed  I  from  my  earliest 

days 

Of  Ruth, — this  Ruth  and  of  her  sweet  replies. 
The  other  Ruth  her  like  in  all  her  ways!" 


CANTO   VII 

The  youth  was  willing,  almost  glad,  it  seemed, 
To  rest  without  the  power  to  look  on  one 
Of  seeing  whom  again  he  long  had  dreamed. 
140 


But  after,  frequent  sighings  were  begun, 
Wherefrom  and  from  vain  looks  around  him  sent 
His  pain  was  known.    Then  she  from  Bice  won 

Permission  to  relieve.     Full  swiftly  went 
The  two  together  through  the  darkened  air. 
Above  their  flight  the  dusky  firmament 

Was  littered  thick  with  stars:  and  everywhere 

Was  silentness,  until  a  cock  did  crow. 

Scenes  looked  familiar  then,  but  strangely  fair. 

A  park  within  a  city.     "Dost  thou  know 

That  bench?"  she  asked  then,  leading  him  the  way. 

He  wist  not  whether  it  was  joy  or  woe 

Shot  through  him,  sharp  with  thoughts  of  yester 
day. 

"And  knowest  thou  yon  barbarian,  vain  and  tall, 
Upon  whose  head  and  martial  proud  array 

"The  sparrows  chatter  when  the  shadows  fall? 
And  knowest  yon  massive  steps  that  lead  a  boy 
At  evening  from  his  books,  and  dost  recall 

"How  two  sat  late,  aware  of  no  annoy 

From  stony  hardness  till  was  green  the  grass? 

Ah,  deem  not  of  another  kind  the  joy 

' '  In  Paradise !    Of  that  the  bounds  ye  pass 
And  know  it  not:  and  longer  might  remain 
If  wiselier  willed.    But,  as  ye  are,  alas! 
141 


"Awhile  must  wait,  your  portions  dashed  with 

pain." 

Then,  close  beside  him,  she  withdrew  her  veil ; 
And,  with  their  hearts  o'erflowing,  once  again 
Silent  they  lingered  till  the  stars  grew  pale! 


While  'neath  a  shade  they  sit,  they  overhear 
The  voice  of  Beatrice  call  afar, 
Who,  ever  as  she  calls,  is  drawing  near, 

But  them  not  calling.  As  the  evening  star 
Serene  and  fair,  she  rose  upon  their  view 
From  the  low  meadow,  where  the  lilies  are, 

Oft  pausing  to  look  back,  as  lovers  do. 

"The    hour    is    come    which    endeth    here    thy 

stay." 
So  spake,  as  from  the  air,  which  radiant  grew, 

A  voice  exceeding  sweet,  in  accents  gay. 
Then  Beatrice  knelt  and  bowed  her  head 
And  questioned:  "Is  it  must  or  is  it  may?" 

"Already  grows  it  late,"  the  other  said. 

"For  long  hast  thou  been  worthy, — it  is  late." 

"But  whither  go  we  two,  twice  over  dead, — 

"What  region  lies  beyond  the  second  gate? 
T7e  two  are  well  content  with  what  is  known." 
"Of  two  I  spake  not,  for  the  one  must  wait." 
142 


"But  must  I  surely  go  and  go  alone?" 

The  poet  near  had  drawn,  and  all  had  heard 

And  hears  the  answer :  ' '  Ages  now  have  flown, 

"For  years  mistaken,  waiting  for  this  word. 
'Twere  pitiful  more  ages  here  to  spend, — 
Yea,  sicken  wouldst  thou  soon  of  hope  deferred. 

"Yet  on  thy  'yes'  or  'no'  does  all  depend." 
Then  thus  the  poet :  ' '  Haste  thee  now  and  go, 
So  that  my  stay  here  may  more  quickly  end : 

"For  I  shall  strive  the  harder  here  below 
For  right  to  pass  on  to  the  better  day." 
But  Beatrice  gave  her  answer :  "  No ! " 

And  would  not  be  persuaded,  or  obey. 

When  ceased  the  radiance,  nor  was  heard  again 

The  angel  voice,  the  poet's  heart  gave  'way, 

And  he  forbore  not  to  confess  the  strain 

It  cost  to  utter  thus  a  new  farewell, 

And  how  rejoiced  to  find  his  words  were  vain. 

Silent,  they  wept.     Then  wings  grew  audible, 
As  of  a  honey  bird: — "When  there  I  told, 
Some  little  adding,  that  which  here  befell, 

' '  And  begged  for  other  future  to  unfold, 
'Twas  given  me :  poet,  for  thy  sacrifice 
Thou,  too,  mayst  go,  and  boundaries  that  hold 
143 


"Shall  never  part  your  steps  through  Paradise." 
Then  cried  Irene :  ' '  Alas,  how  much  this  pains ! 
I  long  have  feared  such  parting  in  the  skies. ' ' 

But  Beatrice :  ' '  Not  till  all  the  stains 

From  thee  and  more  beside  are  washed  away, 

Not  while  a  single  one  of  those  remains 

"Who  much  have  loved  us  shall  I  end  my  stay." 
"Ah,  me! — so  one  at  will  may  wait  on  here!" 
Thus  spake  Irene  .  .  . 


NEAR 

I  FOUND  me  near  thee  whom  not  walls  divide, 

Near  to  thee  yesterday,  at  set  of  sun; 

Near  to  that  face  I  might  not  look  upon ; 
Near  to  those  hands  by  mercies  sanctified; 
Near  to  the  voice  for  which  my  spirit  cried. 

I  strove  against  the  wrestling  foe,  and  won. 

A  hand  upon  the  latch,  a  Heaven  begun, 
Then    footsteps, — then    the    long    years, — turned 
aside. 

For  thine  is  now  what  I  must  quite  forego, 
A  good  I  may  not  share,  who  share  its  cost, — 

I  trust, — I  think, — yea,  surely  this  is  so! 
Calmness  is  thine, — no  longer  tempest-tost, 
Forgetfulness, — a  blessed  Lethe  crossed, 
I  trust, — I  doubt  not, — ah,  could  I  but  know ! 


144 


IN  THE  GARDEN 

HOPE  was  budding,  oh,  so  brightly ! 
Now  its  fallen  petals  nightly 
With  fresh  tears  are  wet; 
Love  was  in  full  bloom,  but  faintly 
Be  that  said:  the  word  is  saintly 

To  one  bosom  yet. 
But  one  flower  grows  ever  fairer, 

Fair  and  tall, 
Making  all  the  garden  sharer 

Of  its  odor  sweet. 
And  I  wonder  and  I  wonder 
Now,  with  spirits  torn  asunder, 
Still  may  pathways  meet? — 
If  each  comes  to  dream  and  ponder,- 
If  there  is,  yet  unforbidden, 
One  fair  shrine  in  common,  hidden 

By  a  friendly  wall, — 
An  altar  taper-lit  with  roses, 
Where  a  sacrifice  reposes  ? 


APRIL 

Go,  rot  within  your  darkling  beds, — there  lie, 
Perhaps  to  rise,  transfigured,  in  far  dreams: 
For  I  would  watch  low  branches  tease  the  streams 

With    dropping    spores, — see    new-come    swallows 
fly- 

145 


Would    learn   what   sweets   the   secret   wildwood 

flowers 

Pour  from  their  carven  chalices  again, — 
Would  with  still  meadows  taste  the  breath  of 

rain 
While  unforsaken  by  the  sunlit  hours. 

Nor  thou,  nor  these,   can   daunt  me,   thou   pale 

Past  — 

Not  me! — but  ah,  there  is  a  tenderer  breast, — 
Oh,  be  of  mine, — of  only  mine, — the  guest, — 

Not  hers  who  came  the  gentlest  and  the  last ! 

My  fancies  dance  like  daisies  there  at  play: 
Believe  me,  broken  hearts  I  laugh  to  scorn; 
But  spare  thou  her, — the  silly  women  mourn, — 

If  I  shed  tears,  so  doth  an  April  day. 


THE  RETURN 

ONCE  more  they  come,  the  robin  and  the  wren; 
The  humming-bird  is  dodging  by  again; 
Again  with  rippling  laughter  ring  the  showers; 
Again  earth  signals  back  to  heaven  with  flowers. 

But  thou  returnest  not:  no  more  I  see 
Those  young  eyes  brightening  at  the  sight  of  me, 
Though  every  nearing  woman's  face  deceives 
A  heart  that  all  too  readily  believes. 

They  are  all  back, — the  years  so  long  gone  by, 
The  waits,  the  meetings,  every  tear,  each  sigh; 
146 


The  toilings  upward  in  hard  broken  ways 
Toward  that  still  height  whereon  perfection  stays. 

The  oriole  drops  like  sunlight  through  the  trees, 
His  nesting  mate  to  cheer  with  melodies; 
The  blackbirds  clamor  once  again;  the  dove 
In  the  dark  oak-tree  coos  again  her  love. 

Child  of  my  heart's  travail,  so  timely  sent, 
Almost  with  peace  to  bless  me  and  content, 
Almost  with  hope,  and  make  me  half  forget, — 
Ah,  do  not  wrong  thy  soul  with  one  regret! 


THE  GUITAR 

THIS  life  were  empty  should  I  lose  the  creed 
That  thou  still  dwellest  in  a  realm  once  ours, — 

That  dreams  there  mine  have  been  as  rotting  seed, 
And  thine  been,  one  by  one,  like  opening  flowers. 

Still  in  my  heart  the  merry  laughter  rings, 
Which  set  the  birds  to  singing  in  our  wood; 

Still  do  I  hear  thy  fingers  touch  the  strings 
Faintly, — sufficing  in  our  solitude. 

And  that  embrace  in  which  two  spirits  met 
And  lingered,  lest  the  parting  word  be  said, 

The  blessedness  of  that  lives  round  me  yet, — 
Yet  on  my  arm  the  glory  of  thy  head ! 


147 


BREAD 

A  RING  too  fragile  and  too  thin  he  wears, 

Not  fashioned  for  a  man,  nor  one  full-grown 
To  womanhood,  wherefrom,  as  it  appears, 

The  set  has  fallen, — they  say  a  simple  stone. 
(I  nothing  know  save  what  the  neighbors  tell.) 

They  say  the  years  are  many  that  have  flown 
Since  from  a  coverlet  whereon  it  fell 

He  lifted  it  and  took  it  for  his  own. 

The  hand  which  such  a  ring  as  that  has  known 
Should  have  slim  fingers,  dainty,  delicate, 
Have  nerves  that  with  emotion  throb  and  thrill, 
Or,  maybe,  lie  for  hours  soothed  and  still 
The  while  a  certain  footstep  soundeth  nigh, — 
Should  be  of  one  far  wiser  than  her  years, 
Whom  beauty  of  a  thought  would  move  to  tears, — 

Should  be  of  one  who,  all  the  livelong  day 
Could  sit  within  one 's  presence,  while  she  read, 

Arousing  only  when  that  passed  away 

(Like  him  who  woke  when  ceased  the  thrushes' 

lay), 
Brought  back,  it  may  be,  from  some  wondrous 

dream 
Of  antique  heroes  or  of  those  who  seem 

More  neighborlike,  within  the  land  of  Fay, 
Yet  ever  ready,  dreaming  still,  to  note 
If  he  might  turn  to  her  from  what  he  wrote. 

A  woman  there,  to  dream  of  dreamers  blind, 
Would  shadowlike  attend,  ofttimes  in  dread 
Of  Angels, — patient  wait  with  meat  and  bread 
148 


To  press  on  lips  reluctant, — made  thus  kind 
By  love  for  these  and  one  beyond  the  west, — 
A  woman  of  all  womanry  the  best. 


SONG 

AMONG  the  lilies  of  an  Easter  morn 

A  loveliest  one, 
Torn  from  the  clinging  stem,  to  lie  forlorn 

Till  day  be  done. 

Among  the  stars  that  make  less  dark  our  night 

A  star  that  falls. 

Fairest  it  shone,  but  soon  was  quenched  its 
light. 

From  glimmering  walls, 

Athwart  the  cries  that  mark  the  wild-fowl's 
flight, 

A  voice  that  calls ! 


PRAYER 

ON  the  cover,  motionless, 

A  weak  and  weary  hand, — my  own,- 
Has  now  let  fall  a  hand  more  feeble : 

Motion  in  the  lips  alone, — 
Moved  in  prayer  I  cannot  hear, — 

Heard,  I  doubt  not,  by  the  one 
Waiting  with  a  welcome  near 
Till  prayer  be  done! 

149 


SONG 

"WHEN  the  grace  of  seeding  grass 
Shoots  me  with  a  slender  bow, 

Makes  me  sigh  a  long  'Alas!' 
What  it  is  I  fain  would  know  1 

"I  would  know  what  throbbing  glows, 
Melts  and  pours  a  ruddy  stream 

From  the  splendor  of  the  rose, — 
Is  it  sooth,  or  does  it  seem? 

"Burns  it  long  within  my  brain? 

Does  it  perish  with  the  seeing  ? ' ' 
It  will  evermore  remain 

Part  and  substance  of  thy  being. 


THE  BENCH 

LONE  on  a  bench  within  the  public  square 

(Rent-free   the  bench  and  sunshine, — well   for 
him!), 

A  man  sat  gazing,  with  bleared  eyes  and  dim. 
Upon  his  face  were  lines  of  sin  and  care. 
And  soon,  behind  him,  one  with  curling  hair 
Uprose,  a  young  man,  straight  and  tall  and  fair. 
I  waited,  though  'twas  hardly  my  affair. 
"What!  art  thou  here  in  such  a  sorry  plight; 

I  little  thought  to  see  thee  come  to  this. 
I  doubt  thou  hast  whereon  to  sleep  to-night, 

And  surely  none  will  greet  thee  with  a  kiss. 
How  oft  they  gave  good  warning, — held  the  light, — 

And  yet  the  road  thou  didst  contrive  to  miss." 
150 


The  old  man  brushed  some  moisture  from  his  eye 
And  slowly  answered:  "Every  man  is  one, — 
Unlike  all  other  men  beneath  the  sun; 
And  who  and  what  he  is  a  mystery 
To  him,  unriddled  as  the  years  go  by: 
He  thumbs  his  primer  when  the  sands  have  run. 
Then  why  reproach  me?"     "Thou  hast  me  be 
trayed, — 

Me  wrecked, — me  ruined, — wasted, — quite  unmade ! 
I  know  that  lump  of  wretchedness, —  'tis  I ! " 


SERENADE 

MY  Lady,  sleep! 
And  may  the  influence  of  the  odorous  pines 

Thy  lithe  limbs  steep ! 
Slowly,  at  length,  the  pleiad  group  declines : 

Slow  billows  leap: 

And  drowsy  nod  the  flowers  at  their  prayers; 
Faint  is  the  breathing  of  the  wandering  airs, 

The  cricket 's  cheep ! 

My  Lady,  sleep! 
Sleep  while  the  night  her  silver  beads  shall  tell, 

Her  vigil  keep! 
Sleep  till  the  swallow  shall  make  audible 

The  dawn 's  glad  sweep ! 
Sleep  till  the  bees  within  the  lilies  lie, 
Then  with  the  morning-glory  close  thine  eye, 

Again  in  sleep! 
151 


No !    No !    Arise ! 
Too  like  to  death, — too  like  to  death  is  sleep! 

My  faint  heart  cries; 
Too  much  like  death's  its  silent  shadows  creep; 

Too  still  one  lies! 

Is  this  remembrance  or  but  fear  that  speaks  ? — 
"At  parting  time  the  roses  left  her  cheeks, 

The  stars  her  eyes." 


THOU  KNOWEST  THE  PLACE 

THOU  knowest  where  I  wait, — not  far,  and  yet 
A  thousand  ages  from  the  noisy  streets 
And  all  the  anxious  faces  there  one  meets, — 

Where  tresses  of  long  grass  are  trailing  wet 

Within  a  spring  as  clear  as  from  regret 

The  memory  of  our  love, — where  noonday  heats 
Draw  near,  but  enter  not, — where  softly  beats 

An  aery  surf  the  slumbering  leaves  to  fret. 

Thou  whom  young  dawns  have  nursed  and  spirits 

clear 

That  dwell  in  deep,  unviolated  woods 
Where  never  sigh  hath  stained  the  solitudes, 
Almost  thy  crackling  footstep  now  I  hear 

(But  that  the  cardinal's  loud  song  intrudes), 
Almost  thy  white  skirts  whispering:  "See  who's 
near!" 

Come,  quickly  come!  for  I  have  waited  long. 
Haste !  for  my  spirit  waxeth  much  forlorn 
Beside  grey  bones,  of  all  that  clad  them  shorn, 

152 


Laid  at  full  length  the  laurel  boughs  among, — 
A  lordly  being,  even  in  ruin  strong, 
Now  from  all  native  semblance   stripped   and 

worn : — 
Once  a  proud  pine,  rejoicing  with  the  morn, 

Stirring  the  birds  to  ever  merrier  song. 

Come,  let  us  mourn  him,  though  not  newly  dead! 

Come,  for  the  squirrels  and  the  birds  are  come. 
He  is  arrayed  now — sumac  at  his  head 

And  at  his  feet;  the  serious  beetles  hum 
A  requiem  over  him ;  silk-vestmented, 

The    choired    cicadas   chaunt: — Should    we   be 
dumb? 


SONG 

COME  with  me,  sweet, — here  quiet  lies 
In  serpentine,  sun-spotted  ways; 

Expectancy  in  trees  and  skies — 

Expectance,  though  the  swallow  flies 
As  through  the  first  of  summer  days, 
Though  idly  yet  the  chipmunk  plays, 

And  still  as  loud  the  partridge  cries. 

Come  with  me,  as  of  old  you  came; 

Upon  lone  years  the  gateway  close ! 
These  woods,  are  not  they  quite  the  same, 

And  we  almost  unchanged  as  those? 

There, — almost, — is  the  same  wild  rose 
You  touched  the  first  great  day  we  came. 
153 


Here  lies,  as  then,  yon  antlered  wreck, 

Its  semblance  to  an  oak-tree  gone; 
As  then,  the  playful  shadows  fleck 

That  weather-scriptured  wall  of  stone; 
As  patiently  as  then  the  trees, 
Long  waiting,  fill  their  destinies; 
Still,  writ  in  blooms  on  mouldering  sod, 
Is  tendered  us  the  truce  of  God, 
Accepting  which,  dear  heart,  we  two 
Again  may  Paradise  renew. 


THE  GOLDEN  HOUR 

Now  the  corn-shock  roofs  him  o'er 
And  the  field-mouse, — filled  his  store, — 

Thinks  of  ease; 

Now,  though  humming-birds  are  darting, 
Swallows  muster  for  departing 

Over  seas. 

Round  thee  now  seems  peace  descending, 
Seems  a  holy  presence  bending 

From  above; 

Seems  in  thy  calm  face  the  sweetness 
Of  a  life  wrought  to  completeness 

By  its  love. 

On  the  porch  the  red  leaf  falleth; 
Now  no  more  the  partridge  calleth 

To  his  mate, 

Telling  her  no  danger  waiteth, — 
One  same  tale  of  cheer  relateth 

Soon  and  late. 
154 


Tell  me,  in  the  time  hereafter, 

Shall  my  lot  bring  sighs  or  laughter? 

Thou  canst  say! 
For  thou  holdest  in  thy  fingers 
All  of  hope  for  me  that  lingers. 

Tell  me,  pray! 

Graceful  as  tall  seeded  grasses; 
Richer  every  day  that  passes 

In  heart's  gold, — 
Not  the  child  that  I  remember, 
Now  the  woman  of  September 

I  behold ! 

Through  to  me  what  dreary  days 
Ever  parted  were  our  ways, — 

Thine  more  fair. 

Fleshed  as  rarest  ripened  flower, 
Spirit  of  this  radiant  hour, 

Heed  my  prayer! 

Still  the  roses  shrinking,  shifting, 
In  the  breeze  their  heads  are  lifting 

After  rain ; 

Still  the  bumble-bees  are  tumbling 
From  the  hollyhocks  and  bumbling 

In  again. 

All  of  summer's  wealth  unf olden, 
Now  the  apples,  rotting,  golden, 

Faint  and  fall; 

In  the  heat  a  breath  of  chillness 
And  a  sad,  prophetic  stillness 

Over  all. 

155 


In  thine  eye  a  tear  is  trembling, — 
On  thy  lips  a  word,  dissembling 

Thy  sweet  pain; 

But  in  vain  thy  tongue  conceals  it, 
For  thy  very  silence  peals  it 

Forth  again. 


L'ADULTERA 

Archangel. 

BROTHERS,  my  wishes  did  ye  well  fulfill  ? 

First  Angel. 

He  sits  alone  and  gazes  on  his  hands, 
Then  folds  them  in  his  tunic,  hidden  so 
From  his  own  eyes, — no  other  dares  come  near. 
And  thus  I  heard  him  speak :  ' '  Here  I  am  Caesar,— 
Here  life  and  death  are  held  in  my  two  hands, 
These  Roman  hands, — no  Jew  has  power  like  this ; 
And  if  he  dies,  I  kill  him, — I  who  saw 
No  sign  of  guilt  which  touched  Imperial  Rome, — 
I  who  have  told  the  Jews :  '  Behold  the  man ! 
I  find  no  fault  in  him. '    Alas !    Alas ! 
How  weakly,  at  their  threat  of  Rome's  ill-will, 
I  shrank  before  their  clamor ;  but  'tis  done : — 
A  Roman 's  word  has  passed ;  and  lo,  'tis  done. 
'Twould  be  as  weak  to  change  it. ' '    Many  times 
His  wife  has  tried  to  reach  him,  armed  each  one 
With  words  like  adder's  fangs,  or  feigning  dreams 
Which  frightened  her,  wherein  she  saw  the  man. 
She  saw  him  with  her  waking  eyes,  indeed, 
And  liked  not  well  the  sight, — the  twisted  thorns 
156 


Upon  his  brow,  the  mocking  royal  robe, 
The  bloody  whip  wherewith  the  Roman  still 
Did  hope  to  bring  to  pity  that  wild  crowd 
The  High  Priest  stirred  against  him, — this  she  saw ; 
Now,  thwarted,  she  so  lifts  her  voice,  it  seems 
That  he  must  hear,  within  his  chamber  shut; 
But  when  she  leaves  off,  such  a  silence  reigns 
As  when  a  soul  (enwombed  on  earth  awhile, 
Here  to  receive  from  tendrils  of  the  vine, 
From  white-upfloated  grace  of  eagle's  flight, 
From  heroes'  glances,  fibres  fitting  it 
For  the  next  higher  life)   departs  from  this, — 
Such  silence  fills  the  Palace,  and  such  awe. 

Archangel. 

And  thou,  my  brother,  what  of  Caiaphas? 

Second  Angel. 

The  High  Priest  on  his  roof  did  much  rejoice 
To  see  and  hear  the  shouting  crowd  below, — 
His  praises  hear,  as  Saviour  of  them  all, 
Who  else  had  all  been  punished  for  one's  crime 
Of  treason  against  Caesar.    Not  for  long, 
When  I  had  come,  rejoiced  he,  but  amazed 
And  trembling  stood. 

Archangel. 

Ye  whipped  them  both,  the  Gentile  and  the  Priest? 

First  Angel. 

I  crave  thy  pardon,  Mighty  Minister, 
But  when  I  saw  the  Roman  matron  stand, 
A  statue  of  contempt,  I  pitied  him. 
157 


Archangel. 

Always  thou  wert  too  pitiful. 

Second  Angel. 

Ill  suits 
Our  brother  with  this  plane  of  earthly  life. 

Archangel. 

And  thou  ?    It  was  my  hope  thou  wouldst  be  stern 

With  Caiaphas,  the  mover  of  them  all. 

Second  Angel. 

As  from  a  heathen  woman 's  face,  the  veil 

I  stripped  from  that  black  soul, — as  in  a  glass 

Showed  him  its  naked,  writhing  ugliness.  Dismayed 

He  raised  aloft  his  hands;  and  from  this  act 

The  crowd,  mistaking,  yet  more  fury  roared, 

As  though  he  urged  them  on.     Then,  sore  afraid, 

He  crouched  and  shrank  and  turned  away  his  face. 

First  Angel. 

I  think  by  this  his  purpose  may  be  changed. 
And,  with  him  changed,  the  Roman  will  make  haste 
To  halt  the  punishment. 

Second  Angel. 

I  think  not  so, — 

Too  loudly  has  he  shouted  through  the  streets 
His  ' '  Death  for  blasphemy ! "    He  will  not  change. 

Archangel. 

The  everlasting  will  must  be  fulfilled. 
158 


First  Angel. 

Is  there  no  other  way?     To  bear  this  long 

Is  more  than  I  can  hope.     No  other  way? 

Archangel. 

Not  for  a  race  so  steeped  in  wickedness 

Will  lesser  sacrifice  than  this  avail. 

First  Angel. 

See !  Where  they  pass  the  outer  gate.  They  shout, — 

Why  shout  the  Gentiles,  too?— "All  hail,  0  King!" 

Archangel. 

Our  brother,  needed  for  the  final  scene, — 

Go  say  to  the  Death  Angel  that  he  now 

Make  ready  on  yon  hill.     The  time  draws  near. 

Second  Angel. 

I  must  obey  thee,  Mighty  Minister. 

First  Angel. 

Within  the  city  gate,  behind  the  crowd, 
I  see  a  hooded  figure,  with  weak  steps. 
Look  how  it  falters  and  would  turn  to  fly, 
Yet  follows  on, — yet  feebly  follows  on, 
As  though  it  still  must  follow. 

Archangel. 

Hither  bring 

Whatever  this  may  be.     Perhaps  thus  veiled 
The  brother  I  have  sent  for  comes. 
159 


j.  irst  Angel. 

Behold ! 
I  have  obeyed. 

The  Hooded  Figure. 

A  most  sweet  voice  I  heard, 

Yet   no    man    see    that    spoke.      Who    art    thou, 
friend  ? 

Archangel. 

Thou,  too,  art  veiled:     I  ask  thee,  who  art  thou? 

The  Hooded  Figure. 

One  who  would  gladly  not  be  any  man, 

Who  curses  her  that  brought  him  to  the  light. 

Archangel. 

What !  voice  of  Jew,  and  sad  at  such  a  time  ? 

The  Hooded  Figure. 

The  man  is  innocent, — yea,  more  than  that, — 
Perhaps  even  more  than  man.     Mysterious  one, 
As  thou  hast  power  to  speak,  upon  thy  soul 
I  lay  his  death,  if  thou  proclaim  this  not. 
The  man  is  innocent,  and  I  have  said, — 
Yea,  I,  even  I, — have  said  it. 

Archangel. 

Thou  hast  said ! 

The   High   Priest  and  the  holy  court  have  said 
He  doth  blaspheme. 

160 


The  Hooded  Figure. 

From  jealousy  of  power 

The  High  Priest  sought  his  death.    The  people  all 
Were  following  after  him,  as  well  they  might. 

Archangel. 

Rash  being !  What  the  High  Priest  may  have  willed 

Is  not  within  thy  knowledge,  as  I  think. 

The  Hooded  Figure. 

I  would  that  thought  were  mine.    One  like  to  him, 

A  teacher  such  as  he,  has  not  been  sent 

Unto  this  people,  and  yet  I, — even  I, — 

The  chosen  guide  of  those  to  whom  he  came, — 

I  led  them  forth  to  Caesar's  governor, 

To  ask  his  death  upon  the  Roman  cross. 

Archangel. 
Thou? 

The  Hooded  Figure. 
Yea,  I.     Behold ! 

Archangel. 

The  Holy  Priest ! 

First  Angel. 

Look,  Caiaphas! — they  dig  upon  yon  hill 

To  plant  the  cross. 

Caiaphas. 

Ah,  me!     I  dare  not  look! 
Within  the  twinkling  of  an  eye  is  done 
Mischief  long  ages  are  too  short  to  mend. 
161 


Archangel. 

Unwisely  said,  great  judge  and  holy  priest, — 

One  word  from  thee, — there  needs  but  this  alone. 

Speak  to  the  Roman,  and  right  willingly 

He  will  unmake  his  order  for  this  death. 

Caiaphas. 

Washer  of  hands! — he  would  not.     I  am  not 

A  stranger  sent  from  Rome,  who  knows  not  God 

And  recks  not  who  blasphemes  His  holy  name, 

But  one  who  thought, — who  tried  think, — just  cause 

There  was  in  blasphemy  for  death. 

Archangel. 

But  go ! 
Go  quickly  now  and  speak  to  him  the  truth. 

Caiaphas. 

Well,  be  it  as  thou  wilt, — this  should  be  tried. 

Archangel. 

There  is  no  other  hope. 

Caiaphas. 

Yea,  yea, — I  go ! 

I  cannot  move.     My  feet  are  chained  to  earth. 
And  all  shall  now  be  finished, — he  must  die! 
Ah,  curses  on  the  day  that  I  was  born! 

Archangel. 

Give  me  thy  trembling  hand,  that  I  may  help — 
162 


Cmapkat. 

I  move, — I  move, — I  go!     The  Lord  be  praised! 
And  thou,  mysterious  friend,  I  bless  thy  hand. 

Archangel. 

In  stumbling  haste  he  runs.     Before  him  speed 
And  draw  aside  the  Roman.     Bring  thou  him, 
If  he  will  any  wise  be  brought;  but  far 
From  Caiaphas  mislead  him. 

First  Angel. 

If  I  may! 

Archangel. 

And  thou  who  comest  with  a  gloomy  brow 

Hast  found  the  fair  Death  Angel? 

Second  Angel. 

On  a  height, 

A  bare  bright  peak,  I  saw  him  laid  asleep, 
Gleaming,  as  near  gleamed  hues  of  gold  and  blue 
And  grey  and  red,  upon  the  lapsing  sands, 
The  unquenched  beauty  of  primeval  fires. 
A  heavenly  butterfly  at  first  he  seemed, 
To  earth  there  fallen  wounded.    At  my  call 
He  rose  up  slowly,  slowly  spread  his  wings, 
And,  looking  o'er  the  desert,  sang  this  song: 

"The  Sands  are  a  furnace  that  fines  with  fire 
And  the  Sun's  great  hammer  doth  beat  the  gold 

Of  the  heart  and  the  life  to  a  saint's  desire, 
Or  the  rapture  of  one  who  would  sing  of  old 
Clear  man  and  the  swath  of  his  ire. 

163 


' '  Where  the  walled  city 's  glories  wax  faint  and  die 
A  city  I  see  never  made  with  hands : — 

The  King  of  that  City,  upborne  on  high, 
Is  casting  a  shadow  upon  the  sands, 
But  a  light  on  a  face  nearby! 

"A  light  on  a  woman  who  would  not  go, 

But  lingers  anear  him,  the  last  of  them  all, — 

A  woman  of  sin,  lone,  weeping  below, —  . 
A  scarlet  drop  for  the  sin  doth  fall, 
But  a  tear  for  the  woman's  woe. 

' '  '  They  have  taken  my  lord,  and  I  know  not  where 
They  have  laid  him.'     And  'Mary!'  she  hears 

one  say, 

And  she:  'Rabboni!'    The  furnace  glare 
All  dross  from  her  spirit  has  burned  away 
Till  love  such  as  this  is  there!" 

Archangel. 

Greatly  it  grieves  our  brother  to  behold 

The  void,  wild  looks  of  those  a  soul  forsakes. 

He  rose  unwillingly,  but  he  will  come? 

Second  Angel. 

There  on  the  height,  with  half-averted  face, 
Hand  over  hand  upon  his  hilt,  he  waits, 
To  hear  thy  dread  command  and  to  obey. 

Archangel. 

The  everlasting  will  must  be  fulfilled. 
164 


Second  Angel. 

But  see!     One  sinks  beneath  his  heavy  cross, — 

May  I  not  help  him,  Mighty  Minister? 

Archangel. 

Such  weakness  would  all  suffering  worlds  undo. 

Second  Angel. 

One  faints  and  falls.     Is  not  she  one  of  those 

Who  ministered  to  him  in  Galilee? 

They  lift  her  now, — a  woman  lifts,  and  John. 

Archangel. 

It  is  the  sinful  woman.     Men  have  said 

Too  much  with  sinners  he  has  passed  his  days. 

Second  Angel. 

May  I  not  help  the  one  whom  sorely  now 

The  Gentile  soldiers  strike? 

Archangel. 

Fair  brother,  no! 

As  now  thine  own,  these  tragic  scenes  must  move 
Men's  pity  in  the  ages  yet  to  come, 
Yea,  all  men  in  all  regions.     To  a  cross, 
A  copy  of  the  one  despised  now  there, 
Shall  Kings  in  legion  bow  the  head,  the  knee. 
This  holy  one  his  word  shall  send  afar : 
Slowly  it  moves,  a  river  through  the  sand : 
I  see  it  wind  through  crumbling  banks  and  sink, 
Not  ceasing  when  unshown.     But  in  his  name 
Shall  men  be  burned  whose  love  for  their  own  kind 
Shall  be  their  sin.     And  in  his  name  shall  hate, — 
165 


Shall  bitter  hate  be  sown,  who  taught  sweet  love, — 
In  his  fair  name  more  cruel  wars  be  fought 
Than  ever  yet  were  known,  and  bloody  hands 
Be  lifted  to  his  shade  in  impious  thanks 
As  though  he  helped  men  slaughter. 

Second  Angel. 

No!     Ah,  no! 

It  cannot  be !     No — No !     This  cannot  be ! 
Has  he  not  banned  such  savage  ways  of  men? 

Archangel. 

And  have  not  men  for  this  a  cross  set  up 

To  thank  him  yonder? 

Second  Angel. 

Now  thy  word  is  true 

But  will  not  all  be  changed?     He  mocks  the  law 
And  changes,  saying  he  does  but  fulfill, — 
The  law  which  orders  vengeance,  as  for  sin 
Of  woman,  death  by  stoning.     Bending  down 
To  write  with  finger  on  the  Temple's  floor, 
When  elders  brought  a  woman,  tempting  him 
To  speak,  from  pity,  counter  tc  the  law, 
He  wrote  upon  the  sand,  then  slowly  said: 
"Let  him  that  sins  not  be  the  first  to  cast 
A  stone  at  her."     So  did  he  mock  the  law 
Of  blood  and  vengeance;  and  no  wars  can  be 
'Mid  those  who  follow  him. 

Archangel. 

Who  follow  him, 

Who  truly  follow  him,  but  many  a  man 

166 


Shall  call  upon  his  name  but  basely  shun 
To  follow  where  he  leads. 

Second  Angel. 

He  taught  them  love, — 

Taught  only  brother  love.     Will  love  not  change 
The  ways  of  men? 

Archangel. 

Yea,  slowly.     Teachers  false, 
Taking  his  garb,  forsaking  all  he  taught, 
Shall  hatred  sow  for  ages  yet  to  come. 
But  here  and  there  a  few  white  flowers  shall  rise, — 
I  see  them  now,  and  in  the  distant  time. — 

The  Woman. 

Go  thou, — yes,  leave  me,  John,  for  there  is  need. 

I  shall  be  stronger  soon,  for  my  great  love, 

Which  overcame,  shall  lift  me  up  again, 

That  I  may  follow  on  unto  the  end. 

Archangel. 

Alas,  poor  woman!     Now,  she  turns  aside 

Too  weak  to  totter  farther. 

Second  Angel. 

Is  not  this 
Of  those  white  flowers  but  now  in  vision  seen? 

The  Woman. 

Ye  that  speak,  who  are  ye?     None  I  see. 
Still  works  the  swoon  upon  me,  as  it  seems. 
167 


Archangel. 

A  great  Archangel  I — a  mighty  power. 

The  Woman. 

Then,  wherefore  with  a  woman  idling  thus? 
Is  not  thy  duty  yonder,  smiting  those 
That  slay  the  righteous  one? 

Archangel. 

It  had  been  so 

Of  old.    Jehovah  reigned,  another  now, 
Above  a  changing  world.     In  either 's  time, 
What  life  and  death  ye  call  are  nothing  more 
Than  sleep  and  waking  are.     What  matters,  then, 
Their  slaying  this  one? 

The  Woman. 

Naught  I  understand 
Is,  then,  Jehovah  dead?    Alas! — Alas! 

Archangel. 

Not  so,  but  for  earth's  race  one  lesson  then, — 
Another  now, — one  threat, — one  promise  then, 
To  lead  and  guide  you  upward  on  the  way 
To  pure  perfection. 

The  Woman. 

Naught  I  understand. 
I  am  a  sinner, — no  perfection  seek. 
I  only  love  the  Master, — only  this. 

Archangel. 

No  more  but  this  concerns  thee,  faithful  one. 
168 


The  Woman. 

But  look, — why  dost  thou  let  such  tortures  be? 

Archangel. 

Dost  thou,  then,  bid  me  smite  them,  faithful  one? 

The  Woman. 

Who,  I,  the  worst  of  sinners?     How  should  I 

Command  Archangels  ? 

Archangel. 

To  Jehovah  pray 
That  he  may  bid  me  smite  them,  and  I  shall. 

The  Woman. 

I  was  not  taught  that  prayer. 

Archangel. 

Ask,  then,  of  me, — 

Kneel  but  to  me,  and  ask,  and  I  shall  go 
As  lion  through  a  sheepfold. 

The  Woman. 

'Twas  a  lamb 
He  called  himself. 

Archangel. 

Ah !    Wretched  woman,  pray. 
Kneel  down  and  rescue  him  who  rescued  thee! 

The  Woman. 

Oh !     Snatch  him  from  these  cruel  ones ! 

169 


Archangel. 

But  thou 

Wilt  lend  no  little  word  that  tearing  thorns 
Be  cut  away  to  let  the  lamb  go  free? 
Wilt  thou  forsake  him  here,  thy  love  grown  cold! 
Still  silent?— I  shall  wait. 

Second  Angel. 

Behold!  she  goes 
With  feeble  steps  and  looking  not  behind. 

Archangel. 

Alas,  poor  woman! 

Second  Angel. 

See! — Our  brother  comes  alone! 

First  Angel. 

The  Roman  would  not  come,  tho'  much  I  tried! 

Archangel. 

The  everlasting  will  must  be  fulfilled. 

First  Angel. 

There  yet  he  sat,  within  the  chamber  shut, 
Still  gazed  upon  his  hands,  so  moving  them 
As  though  he  washed  them  ever.     In  that  tone 
The  spirit  knows  to  hear,  I  whispered  him: 
"Come, — end   these  scenes  of  shame, — arise  and 

come. 

Short  time  for  this  remains.  What  shall  be  said 
In  Rome  of  such  a  Roman?  Thou  hast  squeezed 
One  drop  from  those  stained  fingers  ? "  To  his  eyes 
He  pressed  these,  crying:  "What,  a  Jew! — 

170 


A  wretched,  wandering  beggar  Jew,  despised 

By  his  own  people, — a  seditious  Jew ! 

What  will  Rome  know,  what  care,  when  I  shall 

speak, — 

When  I  shall  say, — and  is  it  not  the  truth? — 
I  tried  to  save  him  when  their  court  condemned? 
When  I  shall  tell  he  sought  to  shake  the  power 
Of  Caesar  in  Judea  ? "    At  this  thought 
He  strove  to  smile,  whereat  my  anger  burned 
Out  to  the  plumage-tips.     Then,  through  the  door 
He  saw  writhe  in  a  serpent,  to  the  skin 
And  threatening  head  whereof  the  stars  and  flowers 
Had  lent  their  colors ;  through  whose  length  the  ribs 
Twisted  and  turned,  as  whorls  of  a  fierce  storm; 
And,  as  a  storm,  he  hissing  terror  flashed, — 
Slowly  came  in  and  coiled  and  struck  his  hand. 
"  It  is  the  blood ! ' '  the  trembling  wretch  exclaimed. 
Then  rushed  he  forth,  and  hastened  through  the 

street; 

And  there  I  left  him,  by  retainers  chased, 
Who  feared  and  marveled. 

Archangel. 

Well! — and  Caiaphas? 

First  Angel. 

When  Caiaphas  unto  the  Palace  came, 

The    guards   derided, — mocked   him, — called   him 

mad — 

They  would  not  let  him  enter ;  thence  he  ran, 
Crying  aloud :  ' '  The  only  one  not  mad 
In  all  the  city  am  I,  Caiaphas!" 
171 


Archangel. 

The  everlasting  will  must  be  fulfilled. 

Second  Angel. 

See  now!     The  men  who  came  from  Galilee 
No  longer  follow, — save  a  few;  but  stand 
Doubting,  or  turn  and  mingle  with  the  crowd. 
The  women  all  yet  follow. 

First  Angel. 

Now  they  reach 

The  bottom  of  the  hill.    The  shouts  have  ceased; 
No  more  the  Jews  now  mock.     The  soldiers  cry : 
' '  Bow  down,  then,  to  his  Kingship ! ' ' 

Archangel. 

Gentiles, — Jews, 

Were  joined  by  him  in  care  and  now  are  joined 
To  crucify  him. 

Caiaphas. 

It  was  here,  I  think, 

I  heard   that  wondrous   voice.     0   friend! — dear 
friend ! 

Archangel. 

What  wouldst  thou,  most  wise  judge  and  reverend 
priest  ? 

Caiaphas. 

I  know  not  what  to  do ! 

172 


Archangel. 

What  answer  gave 
The  mighty  Koman? 

Caiaphas. 

Him  in  vain  I  sought, — 

They   called  me  mad.     Mysterious   counselor, 
This  must  not  be  so  finished! 

Archangel. 

Aye, — it  must. 

Caiaphas. 

But  wherefore? 

Archangel. 

Wherefore  have  men  not  hearkened  to  the  word  ? 
Great  teachers,  Jew  and  Gentile,  did  God  send, 
Yet  crimes  unnatural  scarce  hide  from  day. 

Caiaphas. 

Speak  not  of  this,  but  help  me, — help  me  now ! 

Yonder,  behold,  the  end  is  drawing  near. 

Archangel. 

No  end 

But  a  beginning.     High  upon  a  hill 
The  light  shall  now  be  raised. 

Caiaphas. 

Is  there  no  help  ? 

No  mercy, — none  for  him, — for  me, — for  me 
Who  have  such  need  of  mercy? 

173 


Archangel. 

Ask  thyself, 

Ask  Pilate,  what  of  mercy.    Ye  should  know 
What  has  become  of  mercy. 

First  Angel. 

Thee  I  pray, 
Great  Minister,  to  spare  this  guilty  one. 

Caiaphas. 

In  but  the  twinkling  of  an  eye,  it  seems — 

Archangel. 

Thyself  did  strangle  mercy !     On  a  hill 

The  light  shall  now  be  lifted, — on  one  side 

Of  this  thyself  shalt  now  be  hung  aloft, — 

On  one  the  Roman, — thus  shall  shine  the  light 

Between  two  darknesses,  the  ages  through. 

Caiaphas. 

But  listen ! — listen !    Didst  thou  hear  some  words  ? 

First  Angel. 

It  seemed  as  though  I  heard  a  voice  which  cried — 

Caiaphas. 

Which  cried? — Oh,  tell  me  if  I  heard  aright! 

First  Angel. 

1 '  Forgive  them,  for  they  know  not  what  they  do ! " 

Caiaphas. 

'Tis  so  I  heard,  0  greater  than  a  King ! 
174 


Archangel. 

To  whom  the  angels  and  archangels  bow, — 

AVhom  Jews  and  Gentiles  slay. 

Caiaphas. 

But  I,— but  I — 
I  could  not  be  forgiven, — no,  not  I! 

Archangel. 

Rash  earthling,  say  not  so.     For  even  the  worst 

Comes  mercy  from  that  prayer. 

Caiaphas. 

.    But  I  am  worse — 
Worse  than  the  worst  am  I. 

Archangel. 

Not  so, — not  so! 

Thou  art  a  flail  within  the  hand  of  one 
That  strikes  in  darkness  only.     Soon  or  late 
That  prayer  shall  rescue  earthlings  every  one. 
Ye  know  not  what  ye  do,  poor  stumbling  things! 
But  see!     Upon  the  tomb  which  waits  for  him, 
And  waits  for  all  of  you,  the  rays  that  shine, — 
The  shadow  of  the  cross  upon  the  sands, — 
The  light  upon  the  sepulchre ! 

First  Angel. 

And  look! 

The  woman  does  not  swoon  and  fall,  but  stands 
Serene  and  comforted,  as  when  she  stood 
Within  the  Temple  and  the  elders  shrank 
In  guilty  shame  away. 

175 


FRAGMENTS 


Is  she  thinking  how  oft  near  the  slippery  stair 
How  many  have  tottered  of  those  silent  there 
As  she  passes?     Well,  maybe,  themselves,  they 

forget 
Like  a  moth  how  each  followed  a  flame  in  her 

turn, 

How  praise  made  them  dizzy,  the  sigh  of  regret 
For  roses  ungathered.     Her  cheeks,  how  they 

burn! 
But,  as  for  the  others,  what  thought  makes  them 

fair? 

Ah,  butterflies  dwelling  far  up  in  the  trees 
And  bathing  each  moment  their  charms  in  the 

breeze 
Could  never,  I  think,  feel  as  dainty  as  these! 


II 


Ye  quiet  birds,  sweet  kindred  in  the  trees, 

Long  have  I  left  you  for  the  marts  of  men, 
To  see  them  drain  to-morrows  to  the  lees, 

And  of  to-days  scarce  tasting.     Now,  again 
Let  me  near  spirits  clear  and  all  that  sings, 
Beings  of  upper  air  and  joyous  wings, 
Share  in  the  gentle  folding  of  these  hills. 

Where  next  ye  dine  ye  know  not, — not  one  grain 
Stored, — not  a  thought  for  all  time's  threat  of  ills; 

While  I,  afar,  with  aching  heart  and  brain, 
176 


Pursue    and    search    through    endless,    winding 

ways,— 

Tho',  too  like  you,  for  neither  gain  nor  praise. 
Now,  by  this  laughing  brook,  let's  wander  far 
In  friendship  old  and  sweeter  than  yon  star 
Which  waits  to  be  the  seal  upon  the  fold 
Of  one  more  finished  day. 


Ill 


When  the  swallows  fail  and  to  the  tinkling  quiver, 
Leave  the  waters,  of  a  tender  toned  guitar, 

Is  there  naught,  Dear,  trembling  near  thee  on  the 

river 
Save  the  music  and  our  well-beloved  star? 

And  above  thee,  with  her  garments  torn  and  flying, 
All  enamored  and  forsaken  in  the  skies, 

When  the  midnight  in  wild  ecstasies  is  dying, 
Is  it  only  then  the  lonely  midnight  sighs? 

When  thou  hearest,  half -awakened,  a  lone  singing, 
Like  a  bird,  Dear,  singing  longer  than  the  rest, 

Dost  thou  know,   then,   at   thy  window   what   is 

winging : 
Dost  thou  rise  and  long  to  clasp  it  to  thy  breast? 

It  is  near  thee  when  thy  pathway  seems  the  clearest 
From  the  troubling  and  the  doubting  and  the 

fears, 

It  is  near  thee,  0  Beloved, — it  is  nearest 
Beside  thee,  lying  still  amid  thy  tears. 
177 


IV 


In  solitudes,  where  wealth  and  scorn  abide 

And  self  is  god,  thy  crown  shall  not  be  thorns, 
But  serpents.     With  the  lowly  choose  thy  side. 

There,  there  is  glory  which  the  more  adorns 
That  but  the  soul  may  see  it,  when  dim  eyes 

Like  birds  are  wakened  by  the  voice  of  one 
Forsaking  not ;  there,  in  the  mute  replies 

Of  hand  to  hand,  a  sweetness,  music's  own. 
Great  kings  shall  bow  before  a  greater  king, 

Proud  argosies  with  emptiness  return ; 
But  there  is  gladness,  like  the  rains  of  spring, 

There  peace  and  rest  for  aching  hearts  that  yearn. 


The  fates  but  once  the  thread  of  life  unwind. 

Dim  desolation  stretched  her  desert  sand 
Before  him ;  and  he  dared  not  look  behind, 

Where  gates  forever  sealed  and  silent  stand. 
Ere  they  were  sent  from  those  forbidden  skies 

He  felt  an  impulse,  dreaming,  nothing  more : 
He  looked  into  the  future  and  her  eyes: 

Then  saw  he,  like  a  shadow  cast  before, 
That  other;  and  they  two  went  hand  in  hand 

Among  the  lilies ;  and  he  could  not  tell 
One  from,  the  other  quite,  nor  understand 

How  they  did  seem,  by  some  new  miracle, 
Not  two,  but  one, — that  one,  now  come  again. 

And  from  this  doubt  the  tremblings  yet  remain. 
178 


VI 


He  called  again, — for  long,  he  did  not  call. 

He  sighed  to  see  the  trees  about  the  door : 
Their  leaves  were  dropping  near  the  convent  wall 

As  he  had  seen  them  many  times  before. 

She  saw  him, — then  she  saw  but  falling  leaves, 
Poor  cloistered  heart,  and  scarce  found  strength 
to  speak. 

' '  He  loves  young  flowers  he  bindeth  in  his  sheaves, ' ' 
She  murmured  in  a  voice  as  kind  as  meek. 


VII 

There,  on  the  bed,  she  lay ;  he  sat  beside, — 

Hopeless,  quite  hopeless, — very  calm  and  still. 
It  seemed  but  yesterday  since  as  a  bride 

He  saw  her  lying  so.     "Would  love  or  will," 
His  soul  he  questioned,  "fail  me,  in  her  stead 

To  yield  up  life, — to  watch  the  tide  outpour 
From  severed  veins,  till  light  and  life  were  fled, 

And  she  upraised,  and  I  upon  the  floor?" 

Jealous  of  life  and  light,  of  earth  and  sky, 

He  asked  and  answered  silently, — none  knew. 
That  hour, — that  moment,  as  the  years  go  by, 

Returns  upon  him  ever  fresh  and  true, — 
An  hour  of  nothing  done,  of  nothing  said ; 

And  yet  therein  full  half  of  all  his  days 
Seem  sacredly  enclosed.     The  trees  have  shed 

Their  blossoms  in  the  spring, — in  autumn's  haze 
179 


Their  yellowing  leaves;   and   dews  of  morn   and 

tears 

Of  those  who  knew  her,  whom  he  therefore  loves, 
Have  come  to  him,  and  even  hopes  and  fears.  .  .  . 

VIII 

I  feel  thy  beauty  as  an  anguish  keen, 
0  cankered  lily,  fading  in  the  moon; 

And  over  thee  in  trembling  hope  I  lean, 
As  when  one  waxeth  whiter  in  a  swoon. 

Put  thy  strong  arms  around  me,  too,  0  Death! 

Hold  me  that  I  forget, — at  least,  forget! 
Left  in  this  vale,  I  linger,  drawing  breath, 

When  o'er  the  heights  the  star  of  love  hath  set 

Oh,  lead  me  to  that  kingdom,  king  of  all, 
Where  thou  hast  taken  whatsoe'er  is  best 

And  dear  and  lovely !     Take  me, — hear  my  call ! — 
Where  the  lovely  and  the  loving  are  at  rest. 


IX 


I  sit  and  I  watch  as  the  camels  swing 
Along  the  hard  road  from  the  far-off  land 

(One  heart,   one  heaven,   the  news  they  bring). 
I  am  learning  to  love  it — the  limitless  sand 

And  the  clean,  sweet  bell  that  the  camels  ring — 

Though  I  hear  in  the  distance  the  desolate  cry 
Of  Hagar,  afar  from  her  faint  boy  gone, 
180 


For  she  waileth :     "I  cannot  see  him  die ! ' ' 

Though  I  hear,  when  the  others  have  hurried  on, 
Alone  by  the  sepulchre  Magdalen  sigh, — 

Though  a  mirror  of  glass  is  the  limitless  sand, 
And  I  needs  must  look  at  myself  therein, 

And  there  is  no  cover  that  may  withstand 
The  might  of  its  clearness,  to  hide  one  sin 

Of  the  sins  long-cherished  or  newly-planned: 

All  naked  I  see  them, — the  good  as  well, — 
Of  this  not  the  half  of  the  whole  I  thought, 

But  the  little  doth  ring  like  the  camels'  bell, — 
Though  'tis  thus  with  my  soul  that  the  sands 
have  wrought, 

Yet  I  love  it, — the  fierce  white  truth  they  tell. 


If  thou  could 'st  wreak  fierce  pride  upon  the  race 
And  die  with  plaudits  ringing  in  thine  ear, 

Of  what  avail?     The  crowding  times  efface 
A  glittering  name,  however  high  and  clear. 

Where,  through  the  night,  the  quavering  screech- 
owl's  cry 

Startles  the  ears  of  those  who  yet  can  hear, 
There  lay  thee  down:  the  birds  that  linger  by 
Shall  wake  thee  not  when  leaves  are  green  or 
sere, — 

Shall  wake  thee  not  when  skies  are  dark  or  fine: 
All  weathers  shall  be  friends,  each  season  best; 
181 


And  kings  shall  meaner  requiem  have  than  thine, 
When  pines  shall  sing  above  thy  dreamless  rest. 


XI 


Ye  that  loll  on  your  beds  of  ease, 

Do  you  ever  peer  out  through  the  flimsy  veil 
Between  your  sins  and  the  crimes  of  these? 

Have  ever  ye  hearkened  the  children's  wail 
Or  the  sigh  of  the  criminal's  wife?    Stay,  please! 

It  may  trouble  a  few  of  the  comforting  saws 
Ye  have  cherished  since  Cain  uttered  impudent 

things, 
To  notice  what  penalty  out  of  your  laws 

On    the    women    and    children,    the    innocent, 

springs, 
And  to  ask  for  their  punishment  reason  or  cause, — 

To  think  of  a  widow  or  wife, — of  the  scorn, 
Lone,  starving,  but  as  she  can  beg  or  steal, 

Of  a  daughter  who  better  had  not  been  born, 
Of  a  son  of  seven  years  doomed  to  feel 

The  winter's  chill  in  his  fair  May  morn. 

XII 

Sing ! — the  night  is  short,  Maria ! 

Sing,  ah  sing,  till  it  be  day! 
Once  again  "Santa  Lucia!" 

Soon  we  shall  be  far  away, 
182 


In  a  new-pitched  camp  o'er  ocean 
Called  a  city  and  our  home: 

'Tis  to  us  a  strange  emotion 
Shared  to-night  with  thee  and  Borne. 

Such  a  wail  from  buried  ages! 

Such  a  wild  and  sweet  caress! 
And  that  sigh  of  peace  all  sages 

Would  give  all  things  to  possess! 

XIII 

The  ocean  stretches  far  and  wide, — 
Cramped  are  the  ports  and  few! 

Then  let  us  o'er  the  wild  waves  ride! 
Ye  laggards  all,  adieu! 

How  say  ye,  brothers,  would  ye  feel 

The  final  fortress  won, 
Or  gladlier  gird  again  the  steel 

That  mocks  the  rising  sun? 

For  me, — I  'd  hear  the  clarion 
That  leads  the  glorious  fray! 

Life's  battle,  let  it  still  go  on, 
And  ye  who  will,  go  pray! 


183 


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